Reflections of a Dark Night
by zoey traner
Summary: COMPLETE. A kindly old man tells of the men he served with in WWII and their many adventures together. The first in the Storyteller series.
1. Default Chapter

**Reflections of a Dark Night  
**The first tale in the Storyteller Series

**Prologue**

"Why, hello there. It's been awhile since I've seen you in the park. Come out to enjoy this sunny day, too, eh? Who would have thought we'd be granted such a warm October day as this? Even my old bones feel good today."

"Lovely red bow, Katie. Sets that beautiful blonde hair right off. Gives your eyes an extra-special sparkle, too."

"Teddy, is that a new pair of shoes you're sporting? What's that? Your mum let you pick them out all by yourself, did she? Well, your choice couldn't have been a better one."

"Benjamin! Yes I see you hopping around over there, but it's not polite to interrupt, mate. Ah, now. Don't be giving me those sad eyes. That's better. Keep shining that handsome smile. Brings out your dimples. The birds love those. Not those kinds of birds. The ladies, mate, the ladies! Give you a few more years and they'll be flocking after you, all atwitter. Hooo. . . stop screwing up your face like that, Benjamin, you'll hurt yourself. Teddy, you just keep on laughing. Just you wait, the both of you. One day, you'll be happier than pigs in slop when the ladies start chasing after you. Mark my words."

"Oh, you think that's funny do you, Katie? Well, it might be these two having the last laugh one day. Why? Because it might be you doing the chasing."

"Say again, Teddy? Remember, you got to speak up. These old ears of mine aren't what they used to be. Too many loud noises during the war. Have mercy, Benjamin. You're talking like a steam engine on runaway. Slow down, little mate. No, no. I've nowhere special to be today. Why, of course, I have the time to tell you a story. I always have time for you lot. Gather 'round, then. There's plenty of room on this bench for all of you. Katie, mind that board there on the back. That third one from the top. That's the one. It has a liking for pulling out long hair."

"Everyone settled? What would you like to hear about today, then? Tales from my glory days as a lad of the town? My time as one of Picadilly's top magicians? How about . . ."

"Another story about my mates and our adventures, eh? You sure, Teddy? I could tell you all about the time that I . . . Right then. My mates, it is. Just give me a moment to think of one you haven't already heard."

"Katie, dearie, you keep kicking your shoes off like that and you'll catch the sniffles. Hey, there, that reminds me of something. I've just the story. Get comfortable now and . . . hooo, would you lookie there! Whew! Haven't seen one of those for . . . What's that, Benjamin? Oh. Oh, yes. The story."

"Well, it was quite a time we had that night. Mind you, I tried never to go out on missions thinking I wasn't going to come back. But that night, the thought crossed my mind more than once. Almost didn't make it back from that one. My colonel almost didn't either. That's right, Katie. Colonel Robert E. Hogan. A better man never lived, I say."

"Now, this is what happened . . ."

_**To be continued . . . **_


	2. Chapter One

  
**Chapter One**

"I don't remember this part being in our plans, Guv'nor."

Hogan scrubbed a hand over his face, letting a little of his own exasperation leak into his sigh. The log they routinely used to cross the river was completely submerged except for its very ends. Those were still lying upon either bank, but the end on their side was rocking and sliding. Any moment, he expected it to be dislodged by the water cascading over it in a clear, swiftly flowing ribbon.

He looked overhead and blinked against the raindrops. He could not understand how a few hours of rain had raised the river to its present level. Then, like a light going on in a dark room, he knew the reason and his gaze snapped up and to the east.

"Ah, crap," Hogan muttered.

That morning, he had overheard the guards talking about the rain that had been falling upon the mountains for the last two days. He had walked on by, giving little weight to the information. Only now did he realize his error. All that water washing down the mountain streams and gullies had to end up somewhere. After hearing the guards' conversation, he should have known the footbridge would be unusable and made alternate plans.

He looked upstream, searching his memory for another place to cross. His hand absently went to the leather pouch in his jacket pocket. Inside the pouch were documents containing information hidden within an elaborate series of numbers, letters and strange symbols. A courier was standing by in Hammelburg to carry the papers to London, where code-breakers would begin deciphering the code.

Newkirk kicked a stone into the river with a grunt of ill temper. The rain had plastered his dark hair to his forehead and dripped from his nose and chin. His face scrunched in a grimace as he wiped water out of his eyes. "Lovely."

LeBeau shivered and rubbed his hands up and down his arms. "I hope they have a fire burning in the wood stove when we get back."

The comment gave Hogan pause. The evening was balmy, the rain warm. He glanced over at LeBeau and swore under his breath. Below his black knit cap, LeBeau's eyes were fever-bright.

Several weeks before, a flu-like illness had struck Stalag 13's population. Nausea, fever, headaches and muscle cramps were the worst of the symptoms that appeared without warning. Some men had recovered quickly. Others had endured the sickness for days and in the worst cases, a week. Once the illness had run its course, its victim was left weak and shaky, with little interest in food or much else.

Barracks Two had been one of the hardest hit. Carter, Olsen, Braveheart, and Kinch were presently down with it, while Paxton and Graham were not quite back to full strength. Newkirk, Hogan, and LeBeau numbered among the lucky few that had managed to evade the bug. It appeared now, though, that the illness had cut that number by one.

"LeBeau." Hogan waited until the Frenchman's head turned in his direction. "Are you sick?" Newkirk swung around to face LeBeau, alarm and concern filling his expression.

LeBeau wrapped his arms tighter about himself, rocked slightly on his feet. "I am not . . . feeling quite like myself."

"Why didn't you say something?" Newkirk squawked, taking the words right from Hogan's mouth.

"Because I felt fine when we left camp," LeBeau answered, his voice breaking on another shiver.

Hogan went to him, worried by the way LeBeau was cradling his body – as if trying to physically hold himself together. "Do you "

LeBeau made a choked sound of distress. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he dashed past Hogan to a tree, braced a hand upon its trunk, and was violently ill. Hogan and Newkirk shared a worried glance, then moved closer to the river, offering him some privacy.

Newkirk pensively stared out at the moonlit waves. "Pardon my saying so, Guv'nor, but I hate this bleeding river. Nothing good's ever come from being around it."

Hogan could not have agreed more. He glanced in concern over his shoulder. LeBeau was still hunched over, his body convulsing with another bout of retching. Hogan's stomach muscles tightened in sympathy. There was no way he was making LeBeau finish out the mission, nor travel back to camp alone when he was so ill. Hogan turned back to Newkirk and hooked a thumb in LeBeau's direction.

"Help him ba"

His order cut off as without any warning, the bank crumbled and slid out from beneath their feet.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

LeBeau spat repeatedly to clear the vile taste from his mouth. The nausea was ebbing, but now he felt light-headed and weak. Still using the tree for support, he slowly straightened and wiping a shaking hand over his mouth, turned. He halted, hand still hovering near his face, as the scene before him sank in.

Hogan and Newkirk were gone and the bank where they had been standing looked as if a hungry giant had taken a bite out of it. Instantly understanding what had happened, LeBeau rushed downstream, frantically searching the water for some sight of his friends.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"One moment, the guv'nor and I were talking and the next, we were underwater fighting for our very lives. Yes, Katie, I don't mind telling you it was a scary thing. Swimming was never one of my fondest pastimes even under the best of circumstances, and breathing air is so much better than breathing water. Ta, very much."

"Unlike myself, the guv'nor was a strong swimmer, having lived near the ocean most of his life. Somehow, when he felt that bank give way, he managed to grab onto my arm as we went into the drink. What? It's an expression, Benjamin. Drink . . . water. . . never mind. Anyway, he took such a fierce grip on my arm that I had bruises there in the shape of his fingers for weeks after. That's right, Teddy. Just there - below the elbow. Even though he held on as tight as he could, we got pulled apart all the same. Then I was too busy tumbling this way and that to have time to worry about anyone but me."

"What, Katie? What was it like? Well . . . imagine being tossed into a washer with a bunch of rocks mixed in besides. That's close as I can describe what it was like to be in that river. Too, right, Benjamin, it was bluh. . . it was awful! I think I smashed into every rock, branch and log in that river, but I could never get a good enough grip on anything to keep afloat. The current just kept pulling me under. After awhile I couldn't tell up from down and what little air I'd had when I fell in was fast leaving me. Then just when I thought I was well and done for, along came a piece of good luck."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Newkirk's head cleared the water just as he felt himself blacking out. Drawing in a whooping gulp of air, he fought against the swirling river, arms flailing in effort to get to ground. Something caught his trouser leg and yanked him under again. The rush of water filled his ears along with his sub-vocal grunts as he struggled. He clawed through the water, straining for the surface and more precious air. He popped above the waves in time to see a partially submerged tree still clinging to the bank on his right. He was coming up on it fast. One chance was all he would get. With the last of his remaining strength, he flung his body in that direction; stretched out his hand . . . and latched onto one of the tree's branches. His prayers were answered when the branch did not snap off in his hand.

Gasping and coughing, he pulled himself further up the tree and dragged his upper body onto its trunk. Eyes closing in exhaustion, he lay, feeling the current swirling and tugging at his legs, as if the river was reluctant to give up its deadly embrace. Coughing out another mouthful of river water, he wrenched his eyes open and slid his body along the tree toward shore. His muscles were heavy, his movements clumsy, and he hurt everywhere. Upon reaching the safety of solid ground, he fell face-forward into the grass and let the darkness take him.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

LeBeau's legs gave out and he doubled over with dry heaves. He had no idea how far he had run along the flooded river, desperately praying he would come upon one or both of his friends. He had found neither and had grown too sick to continue. Reluctantly, he accepted that he had to give up his search and go for help.

Sapped of strength and sobbing with pain and despair, he attempted to get his feet under him. No sooner did he stand then his shaking legs crumpled again and he fell to the ground. Wave after wave of nausea rolled through him. Gagging, he struggled to his feet once more, then staggered into the trees toward Stalag 13.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Teddy, Teddy! Be patient, mate. You don't want me to tell everything at once and go spoiling the story, now do you? That would be like giving the punchline before the joke."

"Right. Now, where was I?"

"Oh, yes, yes. Thank you, Katie."

"Well, while I was passed out and poor Louis was on his way back to get help, the guv'nor was having his own troubles . . ."

_**To be continued . . . **_

****

_Thank you for your reviews!_


	3. Chapter Two

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

**Chapter Two**

Hogan almost managed to avoid it.

The shattered tree struck him in the back, directly over his left shoulder blade. One of the branches snared his jacket, yanking him sideways and then dragging him under. The tree continued riding the current downstream, only marginally slowed by the added weight.

Beneath the surface, Hogan jerked and twisted, straining to get free. The jacket rode up his back, pulling his arms up and over his head and restricting his movements even more. His lungs were burning with the ever-increasing need to breathe. Close to full-blown panic, he jack-knifed his body, planted his feet against the underside of the tree and shoved with all his might. His jacket slipped up his arms and off. Later, he wondered how he kept his wits long enough to keep hold of the jacket. With it still tangled in the branch, he gave two quick kicks, shot to the surface, then immediately hugged the tree with his free arm and greedily sucked in air.

Marginally recovered, he pulled the knife from his boot, ducked underwater and started hacking and sawing at the branch. It stubbornly refused to release its hold. He shot to the surface, gulped in a breath, and dove beneath the waves again. After a few more seconds of work with the knife, he stuck it back in his boot, then took the branch in hand and snapped it in two. With his slightly torn jacket now free, he shot to the surface and struck out for land, swimming as best as he could. Between the strong current, the debris, and his weakening left arm, the trip was maddeningly slow.

When his feet finally hit bottom, Hogan gasped out a prayer of thanks, then crawled out of the river and onto the bank, still dragging the jacket with him. His strength ran out at the top of the bank. Groaning in pain, he rolled onto his right side and stared up at the sky. The irony brought a weak chuckle to his lips.

The rain had stopped.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Katie? Katie, its all right, sweet. The guv'nor didn't drown. Okay, now? Right. Could I have my hand back? Ta, ever so much."

"Let me see. Where'd I leave off? Well, about that time . . . hang on. Me leg's gone to sleep. Look out, Teddy. I need some room, here. Bluh . . . ahem.Arthritis, is what it is, Benjamin. Give me a sec."

"All right, then. I'm set."

"Now, about that time . . . "

**HH HH HH HH HH**

LeBeau let out a cry of despair as he lost his balance and fell sideways. The dizziness had worsened, and was with him constantly now. Even lying completely still, his head whirled with sickening intensity. He clutched at the ground, searching for an anchor against the sensation.

His friends . . . LeBeau pounded a fist into the mud beside his head. His friends were in trouble. He had to get back to camp!

Moving as slowly as possible to avoid exacerbating the dizziness, he lifted his head and opened his eyes. The precaution had not helped. Head spinning, stomach churning, he dropped his head back to the ground and squeezed his eyes shut.

Even if he managed to stand, nothing was recognizable. His equilibrium and sense of direction were completely gone. Trees, bushes, stars, ground – all blended together in a spinning, nauseating, gray, white and black mass.

LeBeau pressed his forehead into the cool mud. He was in no condition to help anyone. Not even himself.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Baker turned from the tunnel entrance and stopped, struck yet again by the difference. Barracks Two **felt** wrong. Drained, somehow. Even now, in the deepest part of the night, an undercurrent of energy was usually present in the barracks. As if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next mission - or the next crisis.

This night, the air was filled with the sounds and smells of sickness. In the semi-darkness, Benjamin O'Malley was drifting wraith-like from bed to bed, checking on each man. He paused at Andrew Carter's bedside and Baker took a step in that direction, eager to see if his friend's condition had improved. His heart sank as the pool of light from O'Malley's oil lamp shone onto Carter's face.

Even in the weak light, Baker could see Carter's cheeks were still flushed. O'Malley gave an abbreviated shake of his head and setting the lamp on the floor, started sponging the clammy sweat from Carter's face. The young sergeant's head rolled back and forth on his pillow, his lips moving in sibilant fever dreams.

Baker turned away and with great reluctance, headed toward the bunk where Kinchloe lay sleeping. Kinch's fever had finally broken that morning, but he was still weak as a newborn and every bit as shaky. If not for the urgent radio call, Baker would not have dreamed of disturbing his rest.

"Kinch," Baker called softly, kneeling beside the bunk. The sleeping man failed to react and Baker rested a hand upon his arm. "Kinch. Come on, wake up."

"What are you doing?" O'Malley whispered from across the room. "Leave him alone. He needs to rest!"

Baker's mouth briefly tightened. "Don't you think I know that?"

"What's the matter?" Kinch's question came out slurred, as if the very act of speaking took all of his strength. His dark eyes were glassy, his complexion gray.

"Sorry, Kinch." Baker ignored O'Malley's disapproval and helped Kinch sit up. "But the colonel, Newkirk and LeBeau didn't make it to the rendezvous."

Kinch's complexion went even grayer. "They didn't make it?"

Baker shook his head and gestured toward the tunnel entrance. "I just got the call. Rumplestiltskin said the courier waited as long as he could and they never showed up. He finally had to leave."

Kinch's eyes fell closed and he slumped sideways against the wall. Baker and O'Malley shared a look of concern. Kinch was a strong man. Seeing him so weak was more than a little disconcerting.

"Have Rumplestiltskin's people start backtracking . . . " Kinch paused to take a breath, drawing another look of concern from both Baker and O'Malley. "Have them backtrack from the rendezvous coordinates . . . to where they would have crossed the river. And . . ."

"Have some of our guys do the same on this side," Baker cut in, uncomfortable witnessing Kinch labor to speak.

"You got it," Kinch whispered, lifting heavy-lidded eyes.

Baker and O'Malley started to rise, but Baker paused when Kinch took him by the arm.

"Find them, Baker," Kinch wheezed, doing his best to tighten his grip. Baker nodded, patted Kinch's hand.

"We will." Baker gently placed Kinch's hand beneath the blankets and then got to his feet. He hurried toward the entrance, hoping that he could carry through on the assurance.

_To be continued . . ._

_Thank you for your reviews!_


	4. Chapter Three

_Thank you for your reviews! _

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

**Chapter 3**

"What about Parker?"

"He's getting whiter with each passing hour." O'Malley slouched further into the chair, weariness showing in every line of his body. "I can't let you send him out." He braced an elbow on the chair's arm and propped his head up with his hand.

Baker sighed and put an 'X' next to Parker's name. His list of candidates for a search party was getting all too short. He came to a name and paused, staring at it hard in indecision.

"Tivoli?"

O'Malley's head jerked up and he gave Baker an incredulous gaze. "You're kidding, right?"

The big Italian was one of the few who had not been affected by the illness. But it was hard to get past Tivoli's attitude. From the moment he had arrived at Stalag 13, he had been nothing but trouble. Hogan had tried everything to crack the Italian's hard exterior and find the good man he sensed lurking beneath. So far, nothing had worked, and Tivoli continued to stir up trouble and defy anyone's attempts at true friendship. Like Carter had pointed out once: Tivoli had followers, but no real friends.

"He's not sick," Baker said, still staring at the name. The letters appeared to glow red upon the paper, as if possessed by Tivoli's prickly personality.

O'Malley snorted. "Of course not! No germ would dare take him on!" He paused, then in a rush, said, "You can't trust him!"

Baker raised his head. "If the colonel didn't trust him, he would have transferred his butt out of Stalag 13 in a New York minute." When O'Malley did not refute the observation, Baker nodded to himself and looked back down at his list. Those names without an 'X' seemed to leap out from the page, causing him a moment of surprise. Perhaps O'Malley's comment about germs had some merit after all. Taking a deep breath, he recited the remaining names.

"Lyons, Jones, Benson, Broughton, Maddux, and Tivoli."

Disgust twisted O'Malley's features. "A regular goon squad."

"Benson's in there, too," Baker argued, defending the stocky man. Secretly, he agreed with O'Malley's assessment of the other five men, but they were the healthiest available, and therefore, the best suited for the job.

"When are we leaving?"

Startled, Baker and O'Malley looked toward the door. Olsen hung in the doorway, doing his best to appear as if he had not spent the last twenty-four hours flat on his back. His wan face and dark-ringed eyes spoiled the effect. O'Malley jumped to his feet and rushed to his side.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

"When are we going?" Olsen asked Baker again, while pushing O'Malley away.

Baker gave Olsen a level stare. "Paxton and Graham are in better shape than you are at-"

"Listen," Olsen interrupted. "I've kept my last two meals down, I'm feeling better, and unless you plan on knocking me out and tying me down –"

"Aye, don't tempt me," O'Malley snapped, brogue coming to the fore.

"I'm here and I'm going. You're short on help and there's a lot of ground out there to cover."

Baker said nothing for a moment. He admired Olsen's willingness to help, but wondered if his heart wasn't overriding his common sense.

"You look like the walking dead," Baker observed, stating the obvious.

A glimmer of Olsen's good humor brought a touch of life to his face. "I never said I looked better, just that I felt it."

In response, Baker turned his head and looked at O'Malley. The Irishman rolled his eyes.

"Ah, he'll probably find 'em and get 'em back to camp all on his own," O'Malley sighed, waving a hand in Olsen's direction.

A smile found its way to Baker's lips. He nodded to Olsen, who seemed to have gained a tiny measure of health just from winning O'Malley's capitulation. "Get your stuff. You're going."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

A short time later, Baker's 'goon squad' slipped out the emergency entrance and into the woods. Tivoli, Maddux, Lyons, Broughton and Jones had accepted the assignment with surprising equanimity. Benson had given Olsen a single, 'are you kidding me?' look, then shrugged and made no more mention – silent or otherwise – of Baker's choices.

With choreographed ease, the squad reformed outside the entrance, quickly and quietly confirmed their plans, then went to work. Like hounds to a scent, they spread out, intent upon their sole purpose of finding and retrieving their comrades.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"What's a goon, Benjamin? Well . . . a goon, you see, is someone who's a bit on the rough side. A person of questionable character. Someone with a touch of the bully to him. Teddy, your big brother is **not** a goon. Yes, yes, I know that, but Cory is not a goon, and I highly doubt he would take kindly to you calling him one. He's bigger than you, Teddy. You keep on like that and he'll thump you."

"I'm just getting to him, Katie. Now, don't you worry. The guv'nor's still around - a grandfather four times over, last I heard. That's right. His hair is as gray as mine, now. But back then, it was black as a chimney sweep's brush and hooo, could he turn the ladies' heads. Still can. A real charmer, me ol' mum would say. Why, just last year . . . "

"Hmmm? Right, then, Teddy. Don't pop your buttons. Back to the story."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Left arm hanging limp, Hogan jerked to his knees and started slapping one-handed at the folds of the ruined jacket. His hand landed upon the bulk of the leather pouch and he breathed a long sigh of relief. Flipping the jacket over, he lifted the pouch from his pocket and started working at the seal. It was a difficult task one-handed but he finally managed it. The documents were only slightly damp, the writing smeared, but still legible.

His relief at finding the coded papers relatively unspoiled was short-lived. The papers were safe, but his men were not. LeBeau had been far enough way when the bank caved in that Hogan was certain that he had not ended up in the river. But the Frenchman was still terribly sick and a good distance from Stalag 13. It was unlikely he would make it back without help. And Newkirk . . .

Hogan took a shaky breath and sat back on his haunches. Newkirk. What had happened to the Englishman after the river had separated them? Was he still alive?

_You know me, guv'nor_, came Newkirk's voice, full of humor. _Give me the odds and I'll beat 'em every time_.

Until he had reason not to, Hogan would go on the believing that the resourceful man still held a winning hand.

Supporting his useless arm against his side, Hogan got to his feet, took an unsteady step, and then stopped. Should he look upstream or down?

A shiver coursed through him, suddenly drawing his attention to the fact that he was completely wet. For the second time that night, life's strange twists and turns brought a faint grin to his face. He was cold and wet from falling in the Saale River. Again.

Lifting his head, he glanced left, then right. Fifty-fifty.

_Keep on beating those odds, Peter_, Hogan silently ordered, choosing left and heading upstream.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Newkirk woke shivering.

The night had become even more miserable. A cool breeze had sprung up while he had lain unconscious, turning his drenched clothing ice-cold. Grimacing in discomfort, he braced himself for what he just knew was going to be another unpleasant experience.

_Got to move your arse, Peter, lad._

Trembling with cold, he worked at convincing his bruised and battered body to move. One limb – one groan at a time, he picked himself off the ground. Swaying on his feet, blinking and squinting into the breeze, he looked around, hoping to see Hogan coming toward him.

The bushes behind him rattled and he swung around, held his breath. A moment passed, then another. Newkirk slowly leaned forward, then jumped back as a plump river otter waddled out. Newkirk froze, the otter sat straight up on its back legs, and for several seconds, the two simply stared at each other. A grin slowly stretched across Newkirk's face.

"Don't suppose you've seen another guy 'bout my height, black hair, wet . . . "

The otter whistled at him, then with a twist and wriggle of its lithe body, dove past him and slid into the river. Newkirk watched it swim away, then clucked his tongue.

"Unfriendly sort."

The distraction was instantly forgotten as another shiver shook him. Clutching his arms about himself, Newkirk started stumbling along the river.

He made certain to stay far from the edge.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Katie, put that shoe back on this minute, or you'll not be hearing the end of this tale. Now, there, young miss. Putting on the one didn't mean you could kick off the other. Both shoes on and keep 'em there, Katherine Elizabeth. It may be warm for October, but not that warm."

"Now . . . Hmm. Teddy, you don't rush a man telling a tale. You get your impatience from your mum, you know that, don't you?"

"You've been mighty quiet over there, Benjamin. You all right then, little mate? Oh, you're waiting to hear about the goons, eh?"

"All right, then. As the guv'nor and I were stumbling about in the dark and poor Louis was trying to hold the last of his stomach down, our mates the goons were doing their level best to find us."

_To be continued . ._ .


	5. Chapter 4

_Thank you for your reviews! _

_This chapter is also rated PG for swearing._

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

**Chapter 4**

"Over there!"

Maddux pulled Lyons' head down and turned it in the direction he was pointing. "Right over there!" Lyons shook his head and Maddux thumped him on one large bicep with his fist. "Right. There."

"That's a rock," Lyons grumbled, starting to turn away.

Maddux yanked him back and hissed in his face, "A rock that pukes?"

Lyons squinted past Maddux at the 'rock' that was indeed, attempting to throw its guts up. A soft moan followed, provoking Maddux's triumphant, "I told you so!"

The two left the bushes and quietly moved forward. LeBeau was down on his hands and knees, head hanging, breath coming in pants and moans. He looked up when they got closer. Tears ran down his cheeks, mixing with mud and the detritus of his latest bout of retching. Maddux grimaced as he took in the Frenchman's appearance. Mincing past the puddle of vomit, he grabbed LeBeau by the back of his coat and hauled him to his feet. Lyons watched from severalyards away, mustachioed upper lip curled in distaste.

Maddux half carried, half-led LeBeau toward Lyons, who sidled away. "Get back here, ya big goof," Maddux snapped.

Lyons emphatically shook his head. "I ain't getting near him. He's sick."

"So's half the damned camp!" Maddux retorted, then stopped in alarm when LeBeau gasped and clutched at his stomach. "Hey, Frenchie!" Maddux peered down at LeBeau's slack face. "Don't you puke on me, got it?" LeBeau gave him a pitiful look, then quietly passed out. Maddux huffed in exasperation. "Great." He eased LeBeau's limp body to the ground, then stood straight and glared into Lyons' eyes.

"You get to take him back to camp."

Lyons' eyes went wide, then narrowed. His broad shoulders flexed. "Says who?"

Maddux took a step closer, until they were almost breathing the same air. "Says me," he snarled. "I found him, so you get to take him back to camp."

"He's covered in puke!" Lyons looked down at LeBeau and his lip curled again.

LeBeau mumbled something. Maddux dropped to a knee and leaned toward him.

"Back with us, huh? How 'bout you tell us what happened to Hogan and Newkirk before you take another trip to la-la land."

LeBeau blankly peered up at him, then panic distorted his expression. "Ils ont appartenu à la rivière!"

"What?" Maddux shook him by the shoulder. LeBeau groaned, head lolling. "What—"

"He said they fell into the river," Lyons muttered, glancing in the direction the river lay.

Maddux stared up at him, mouth hanging open in surprise. "You talk French? Why'd you never say so, ya big goof!"

Irritation flashed in Lyons' eyes. "Because –"

"Louder, you two. I don't think they heard you over in Hammelburg."

Maddux shot to his feet and Lyons spun toward the bushes at his back. Tivoli, Benson, Broughton, Olsen and Jones quietly slipped into the open. Tivoli came to a stop and braced his hands on his trim hips.

"You trying to get us all killed?"

Maddux and Lyons shared a slightly guilty look, then simultaneously pointed down at LeBeau. The Frenchman had passed out again and was breathing in raspy pants. Benson hurried to LeBeau's side, worried by the smaller man's condition.

"We found him!" Lyons declared, flashing a smile.

"**I **found him!" Maddux snapped. "He told us Hogan and Newkirk fell into the river."

Tivoli frowned. "That explains why I couldn't find them." He flicked a glance at Olsen. "You two see any sign of them?"

Olsen shook his head. "Nothing."

A thoughtful look crossed Broughton's face. "Jonesie and me found a place upstream where the riverbank had caved in. Could be how they ended up taking a swim."

Tivoli's head came up and he glanced around. "So LeBeau, here, came downstream trying to find them?" He looked down at LeBeau, then around again. "But you found him here, so must be he'd figured he couldn't help them and –"

"No way!" Olsen's voice was rough with anger. "Louis wouldn't leave them to die!"

"I was going to say," Tivoli fired back. "that he was heading back to get help." He turned his gaze to Benson, dismissing Olsen's attempt at offering an apology. "What's the matter with him?"

"He's sick," Maddux and Lyons proclaimed, speaking over Benson's declaration of, "He's burning up." Tivoli gave Maddux and Lyons a look that would have peeled paint, then made eye contact again with Benson.

"Get him back to camp. We'll go back to the river and keep looking for the other two."

Maintaining eye contact with the big Italian, Benson slowly stood. "Have one of the others take him. I'm staying with you."

"That goes for me, too." Olsen drew himself up, ready for a fight despite his recent illness.

A gleam appeared in Tivoli's eyes and his lips twisted in a sneer. "What's the matter? Don't trust me to bring back Fearless Leader?"

Olsen and Benson said nothing and after a tension-filled silence, Tivoli's hard gaze slid to Lyons.

"Take him back to camp."

Maddux grinned, while Lyons could only stare, frustrated, at Tivoli. With a shake of his head, he bent down, gingerly – and with a great air of disgust – picked up LeBeau. The other men watched him walk away, then turned and looked at Tivoli. He rolled his eyes and flung his arms out to the sides.

"Well? You want I should do a Schultz or something?" He obligingly made shooing motions."Let's go!"

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan stumbled and went down on one knee. The fire in his back and shoulder was getting worse, while the rest of his body was getting colder. It was a strange contrast.

_I hope Newkirk's in better shape. _

Bracing himself with his good hand, he pushed off the ground – and felt an instant of surprise as his muscles gave out. He pitched forward, heading for a face-first landing in the mud. Twisting at the last moment, he hit the ground on his good side, hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. Several moments passed before he was able to draw a full breath. Worn out, worried and cold, he lay, waiting for the strength to try again. Without realizing it, his eyes closed and he relaxed.

Somewhere close, an owl softly hooted and from even farther away, received an answer.

_Wonder if it's the same one that I heard at the farm. What time . . . gotta get some more straw for this mattress. LeBeau's too sick to go . . ._

Hogan sighed and shifted, unaware of how badly disjointed his thoughts had become.

The owl sent off another call, then left its branch. Its soft wing beats faded and more time passed in relative silence. Then faintly, as if in a dream, Hogan heard Newkirk. Stuttering.

_I didn't know Newkirk stuttered._

Hogan's eyes flew open.

_Get up._

Slowly, he drew his hand toward his body and placed his palm against the ground. His muscles flexed, his head lifted . . . then between one breath and the next, he lost consciousness and fell back to the ground.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Whuh- whuh-what a bluh-bluh-bloody ruh-ruh-rotten nuh-nuh-night."

Shaking as if palsied, Newkirk shuffled over to a half-buried log and sat. The log's damp, rotten bark started sliding off, threatening to take him with it. With a muttered curse, he caught his balance, planted his feet firmly back on the ground. He stared out at the river through narrowed, blurry eyes, hating the very sight of it.

"If . . . if I nuh-nuh-never s-s-s-s-see th-th-thuh-this bluh-bleeding ah-ah-awful ruh-r-r-rruh-river again it'll buh-buh-be t-t-ttuh-t-too—OW!"

He doubled over, clamped one hand onto the calf suddenly seized with cramp. Massaging the rock-hard muscle did no good, so Newkirk stood and tried walking it out. He had taken only a few stumbling steps when the other calf cramped. His legs buckled, throwing him to the ground. Unable to catch himself, he fell hard, his head striking a rock with a dull thud.

_To be continued . ._ .


	6. Chapter Five

_Thank you for your reviews! _

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

**Chapter Five**

"So there I . . . "

"Benjamin? Benjamin, standing on the bench is probably not a good . . . Here now, that tickles! Had my hair all combed to its Sunday best, too. Hold on. I'm surrounded. What's this all about, eh? Katie . . . watch where you're putting your-! No, no. I'm fine, sweet. Just thinking I should have let you leave your shoes off. My voice? Ahem. There's nothing wrong at all with me voice."

"Now, then. Why is it that you lot are after my hair? Oh, you want to see where I hit my head? Well, it was right here. Here, Teddy. Put your finger . . . There. Feel it? Okay, let Benjamin and Katie have a go. Let's not have a repeat with your foot, okay, Katie? Ta, VERY much."

"See? Not so bad. Just a wee bit of a lump, still. But back then, it was a lot bigger. Rocks are harder than heads, let me tell you. Too right, Teddy. It was quite a headache that I had when I woke up. Worse than that time I had one too many at . . . Well, that's another story for another time. When you're older."

"All right, you three. Sit back down. I'll be having none of you ending up with your own bumps. Not another word until I see three ar- settees sitting. That's good."

"What's that, Katie? Speak right up. Ah, yes. We were in a real fix, and it was looking pretty bad for the both of us."

"You're spot on, Benjamin. The goons were still searching high and low for us. But they ran into a bit of trouble, themselves."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Watch it!"

Benson let go of Broughton's arm, dampened his grin at seeing the other man almost step into a splash of vomit. Broughton squinched his eyes closed, shuddered.

"I'm gonna smell that crap forever!"

"Least it's easy to see where he's been." Jones shoved past, almost sending Broughton back into LeBeau's 'marker'. Broughton made a rude gesture at Jones' back, then sullenly followed in his steps. Benson released a drawn-out sigh. He was not certain these men could work as a team at anything.

"Come on, big guy," Olsen softly urged, coming up behind Benson and clapping a hand to his shoulder. "We're almost to the Saale." Benson let him pass, then followed. So far, Olsen had kept up with the rest of the squad without much trouble. But Benson sensed his friend's energy was giving out. He kept close to Olsen's heels, ready to help if needed.

Not far ahead, Tivoli went down theembankment and stopped, bracing his hands on his hips. The rest of the squad lined up along the top. The river lay only yards from Tivoli's feet, and not far to his right, lay more evidence of LeBeau's illness. Tivoli briefly pondered the vomit, then let his gaze travel further to the right, upstream.

"So," he said, nearly inaudible to the others. "This must be where he decided he needed help." He suddenly glanced over his shoulder at Benson, hooked a thumb at the water. "Is it always this high?"

"No." Benson beckoned to him. "Come back up here. The current might have undercut the bank." To his surprise, Tivoli immediately followed the advice. It seemed the Italian would take orders after all.

Broughton snapped his fingers. "Just like the place we found."

"You think that's where they fell in?" Maddux asked, eyeing the swift current below them.

Tivoli threw a thoughtful glance upstream again. "Maybe. Or maybe they fell in while they were crossing."

Maddux snorted. "They're dead by now. No use wasting any more ti -"

Tivoli spun, clamped a hand in the front of Maddux's coat and jerked him forward. Stunned by the unexpected attack, Maddux could only stare into the furious black eyes poised just inches from his own. The others edged closer, ready to separate the two combatants.

"Nobody's giving up!" Tivoli snarled into Maddux's face. "Not until we know for sure." He shoved Maddux at arms' length, then faced the rest of the group. "Anybody else got a problem with that?" When the group signaled a collective 'no', Tivoli released Maddux as quickly as he had grabbed him and turned away.

Benson and Olsen exchanged looks of pure bewilderment. The sentiment behind Tivoli's reaction was totally uncharacteristic of the Tivoli they knew – and avoided.

"Hey," Jones said under his breath, moving downstream from their position. He squinted, bobbed his head, then craned it high. "Hey, look!" He pointed toward a drift of tree limbs, sticks, brush and other debris caught against the bank even farther downsteam. The others rushed toward him, drawn by his excitement. He glanced their way, pointed again. "I think I see one of them!"

"Where?" Tivoli and Benson chorused, staring hard at the deadfall. The others did the same, everyone looking for either Hogan or Newkirk. Jones grimaced, frustrated.

"Are you guys blind or something?"

"We're going to be dead if we don't keep our voices down!" Olsen hissed, making a sharp, palms-down gesture. His eyes swept the area, checking for potential threats.

Jones took off at a run for the deadfall, ignoring everything except what he had seen. Tivoli's breath left him in a sharp curse. He sprinted after Jones, with Benson and the others right behind him.

"It's down here!" Jones scrambled over the tangled pile of wood, sending branches shifting and sliding under his feet. Wedged against the deadfall's base, just above the waterline, was some dark clothing. The other men raced after him, more concerned with Jones' actions. His mad scramble and the rough current threatened to collapse the already dangerously unstable pile.

"Jonesie!" Broughton called, as he and Maddux pulled even with Olsen. "Get off there!"

Olsen stopped at the top of the bank, feet sliding on the wet grass. He wrapped one arm around a tree, reached out with the other. "Chain! Make a chain!" Broughton spun, grabbed Olsen's free hand and thrust his own toward Maddux, who clamped onto it. His own hand shot out, tightly gripped the back of Benson's belt just as the bigger man followed Tivoli to the water's edge. Jones glanced up at them, then down at the shifting mass under his feet - and finally realized where his foolish rush had taken him. He managed a single step in Tivoli's direction.

Branches and limbs fell apart, started tumbling into the water with increasing speed. Jones' gaze jerked down to his feet, then up to meet Tivoli's wide eyes. The limb carrying most of Jones' weight slid, throwing him off balance. He tipped backward, arms flailing, eyes white-rimmed with pure horror. Benson and Tivoli lunged forward, Benson catching a fistful of Tivoli's jacket. Tivoli stretched toward Jones, extending his arms as far as possible. His hands locked onto Jones' arm and he let out a yell. The chain of men immediately reversed, muscles straining to pull Jones to safety. Seconds later, his feet hit solid ground and he literally fell into Tivoli's arms. Tivoli staggered, but somehow managed to keep his feet under him. Nostrils flaring with each heaving breath, he took a double handful of Jones' jacket and set the white-faced man on his feet.

"You ever do something so IDIOTIC again," Tivoli rasped, voice shaking with suppressed rage. "And I swear I'll toss you into the river myself!"

Jones stood, slack-mouthed, as Tivoli spun on his heel and stalked up the bank past the other men and into the trees. One by one, Benson, Broughton, Maddux and Olsen picked themselves off the ground and brushed themselves off. Once he had finished, Olsen casually ambled over to Jones, flung an arm about the other man's shoulders.

"Wow," Olsen remarked, grinning. "Guess you really scared him, huh?"

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"We found out that night that the goons could work together, after all. Surprised everyone, even themselves, I think. They were a gruff bunch, like a pack of half-wild dogs at times. But when it counted, they always did the right thing. Only needed a bit of reminding now and then to do it."

"Yes, Teddy. That was the first time they'd all been sent out together like that. But it wasn't to be the last. What? Not today, Benjamin. I can't be starting another tale before finishing this one."

"Well, now. I'm just getting to Louis, Katie. Lyons took my little mate back to camp, just like he'd been told. And when he got there . . ."

_To be continued . . . _


	7. Chapter Six

_Thank you, Marilyn!_

**Chapter Six**

O'Malley stepped back from the bed and slowly straightened, one hand going to the small of his back.

Parker lay in the bunk before him, bathed in sweat and panting with nausea. He curled into himself with a groan, teething grinding in distress. Recognizing the signs, O'Malley grabbed up a bucket and made it back to him in the nick of time. Parker flung off the blanket, eyes wild with panic and lurched over the side of the bed. Fists clenched tight on the mattress' edge, he hung his head over the bucket and vomited. O'Malley rubbed his hand back and forth across Parker's back while the ill man gasped, then vomited again.

"Sorry," O'Malley murmured, feeling helpless. He glanced across the room, making eye contact with Paxton. A look of sympathy flashed across Paxton's face before he went back to wiping the sweat from Carter's neck. O'Malley sighed, grateful that Paxton was feeling well enough to help. Carter and LeBeau had spent nearly every spare moment helping to nurse the ill men. The long hours had taken their toll. Worn down with fatigue, Carter had suddenly taken ill and now LeBeau was missing.

Sorrow seared through O'Malley like a wave of fire. "LeBeau'll be fine," he said fiercely under his breath. "All three of them will be."

Parker fell back onto the bunk and closed his red-rimmed eyes, his body trembling in the nausea's aftermath. O'Malley drew the thin blanket around him again, tucking it in tight to keep out drafts, then retrieved a cup of water. He bent down, lightly tapped Parker's shoulder. Parker cracked his eyes open and looked up with only vague interest. O'Malley lifted the cup into his field of vision.

"Try to drink some water, okay?"

The mere suggestion deepened the greenish tint of Parker's complexion.

O'Malley set the cup in reach, knowing better than to push it for the moment. "I'll check back on you in a little while."

Parker replied with a weak nod, closed his eyes, and rolled onto his side. His arms slowly moved to wrap protectively around his tender stomach.

The bunk concealing the tunnel entrance suddenly rattled up, hitting the frame above with a loud crack of wood on wood. O'Malley jumped and turned to face the tunnel, mentally bracing himself for whatever was coming next. Baker emerged from below, brow deeply furrowed in a scowl. He closed the entrance, then spun, strode to the table and sat. O'Malley shared a quick glance with Paxton, took a deep breath and went to found out what was going on.

Baker obviously heard his approach, but did not look up. He folded his hands upon the table, fingers tightening so hard O'Malley expected to hear bones breaking.

"What's wrong?" O'Malley asked, voice hesitant with dread. He slowly sat down beside Baker and rested his arms on the table.

"What isn't?" Baker seethed through gritted teeth. He sat motionless, staring straight ahead.

"Well," O'Malley said, lowering his head to study his own folded hands. "Schultz came by with some more blankets. He's feeling almost as good as new. The quarantine's been lifted from Barracks Seven, Eight and Eleven, the clinic's starting to empty out and Klink's making sure we have plenty of Red Cross medical supplies. Looks like we may be through the worst."

Baker blinked, the tension in his jaw easing slightly. "That's good. Real good."

O'Malley merely nodded. Baker's dark eyes flickered toward him. A tilt of the head and an expectant look from O'Malley encouraged him to share the source of his anger.

"London," Baker growled. "seems all they're concerned about is getting those coded papers."

"Aye, so you've heard from them."

Baker huffed, eyebrows shooting up. "Oh, yeah. I heard from them. Several times. And they keep asking when they're going to get those papers." He thumped a fist upon the table's top. "Of course, they're important, but so's --"

"Let it go, Baker." Kinch put his legs over the side of the bed and clutched his head in his hands. O'Malley shot up from the table and rushed to his side, worried he was going to topple over. Kinch waved him off.

"I'm okay. Just got dizzy for a second."

"That's your body's way of telling you it needs more rest," O'Malley countered with a telling edge to his voice.

Kinch' face pinched with a frown. "Well, my body can just shut up, because I'm not staying in this bed any longer."

O'Malley was all set to argue when the tunnel entrance opened again. Baker stood, then hurried forward to help when Lyons appeared, LeBeau slung over one shoulder.

"Careful!" O'Malley cried, hands going out in a warning motion. "Watch his head."

Kinch grabbed onto the frame of the bunk above him and used it to haul himself to his feet. He stood, swaying slightly, while O'Malley and Baker helped Lyons with LeBeau.

O'Malley suddenly whirled away from the tunnel, hands in his hair. His gaze raked the room, flitting from bed to bed. "He's got to be in a lower bunk," he muttered.

"Here," Kinch called, pointing down at Olsen's bed. "Olsen won't mind."

O'Malley glared at him, then pointed Lyons – now bearing LeBeau's limp body in his arms – toward Olsen's bed.

Lyons moved forward, Baker edging backward to let him past. LeBeau's head turned from where it had lain against Lyons' chest, his lips moving. O'Malley caught a few words, all in LeBeau's native tongue. To his utter surprise, Lyons bent his head, softly replied – in French.

"What about Colonel Hogan and Newkirk?" Kinch demanded, once LeBeau had been settled in the bed. "Where are they? Are they all right?"

Lyons turned toward him, his eyes locking onto the wall at Kinch's back. "I don't know where they are, Sergeant Kinchloe and I don't know if they're all right, either."

"Explain yourself, Corporal." Kinch's voice gained in strength. Lyons' shoulders pulled back, his chin snapped up, and he braced to full attention. The reaction, so unlike him, caught Kinch by surprise.

"We found Corporal LeBeau in a location that led us to believe that he had been returning to camp for help. The only thing that he told us is that Colonel Hogan and Corporal Newkirk had fallen into the river. When I left the others to bring LeBeau back here, they were getting ready continue their search."

The news coupled with Lyons' continuing respectful attitude – something Kinch had never seen before – rendered him momentarily speechless. He looked beyond Lyons' shoulder to meet Baker's eyes, then back at Lyons.

O'Malley straightened from checking LeBeau. "LeBeau said something to you a minute ago. In French. What was it?"

Lyons gaze slid to O'Malley, a slight sneer twisting his lips as his stance relaxed.

"You like listening to private conversations?"

"Answer him!" Kinch snapped. O'Malley suddenly looked at him in concern, then breathed a sigh of relief. The gray cast was all but gone from Kinch's face and he appeared steadier on his feet.

"Sir!" Lyons rapped out, shoulders going back again. "Corporal LeBeau asked about Colonel Hogan and Corporal Newkirk."

Baker and O'Malley glanced at each other behind Lyon's back. _Sir?_ Baker mouthed, eyebrows elevated to record height. O'Malley shook his head in a small show of amusement and went back to checking on LeBeau.

Curiosity tempered Kinch's expression. "And your answer?"

"I told him that they were busy and would see him later, sir."

Kinch considered that, before his gaze was drawn back to LeBeau. "How's he doing?"

"Damnit," O'Malley muttered, taking up a cup of water. "I thought he was looking frayed around the edges this morning." He put the cup to LeBeau's lips, urging the Frenchman to drink. LeBeau sipped at the water, then turned his head, refusing to take any more. O'Malley sighed and glanced back at Kinch, Baker and Lyons. "He said he was only 'tired'."

Baker shrugged. "May have been true at the time."

"Yeah," O'Malley braced an elbow on the mattress and rested his head in his palm. He stared down at LeBeau, watched the Frenchman twist restlessly beneath the blanket. "But I should have known better."

Kinch sighed. Pulling Baker aside, he asked, voice strained with worry, "Anything from Rumplestiltskin?"

Baker seemed to slump in on himself. "No."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Yes, Teddy, we were best mates back then. Still are to this very day. Why, of course, we had our rough spots, no doubt. But we also had many a grand time together and no better friends on this earth could I ever find. If one of us was in trouble, then we all pulled together to help him out. We still would."

You do so have friends like that, Katie. What do you call these two fine strapping lads, then, eh? None of that eye-rolling Theodore Patrick. Benjamin, you can stopping laughing any time how. It makes no never-mind that you lot are brothers and sister. You're still best mates. I've seen it myself."

"Oh, is that so? Think on this for a moment, then. You remember last month? That was quite a row you three had over that candy bar, wasn't it? Lots of yelling, name-calling, making faces and the like. Umm-hmm. But remember what happened the very next day? That's right, Benjamin. That gang of older kids – Teddy, watch yourself. Where'd you learn a word like that? No. Nevermind. Just don't be saying it anymore."

"Anyway, when that gang took to picking on Benjamin, Teddy, you and Katie came running like the King's own guards. Took a stand, the three of you did, and together, taught those older kids to leave off."

"Ah, now you see. So ends my lesson for the day."

"The lesson has ended, little mate. Not the story. And it's time I get back to the telling of it."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Newkirk drifted back to consciousness. Disoriented and feeling slightly ill, he remained still; eyes closed. The ground beneath him was cold and damp, his clothing was wet and his head throbbed with a deep, lancing pain.

Opening his eyes, he gathered himself and rolled onto his side. The pain in his head worsened and he discovered a hot, swollen knot just below his hairline. He mapped the knot's size with his fingertips, then brought them before his eyes. Slowly, he rubbed them together, staring at the smeared blood in dumb amazement. He had no memory of getting hurt.

Hogan's face flashed through his mind. Newkirk gasped, a sense of urgency spurring him on.

After much cursing and groaning, he managed to stand and then paused, wondering where he should go. He turned to the right, putting the river on his left, and followed it downstream. He placed each foot carefully, unwilling to jar his tender head or risk a fall. His hand went back to the knot.

_Must be how I got this._

Among the many aches and pains he had accumulated so far, he noticed that his face felt strange. He trailed his fingertips from the knot over his temple and down his cheek to his chin. The entire right side of his face was crusted with blood.

_Cor, Peter. You must look a lovely sight. _

He kept walking parallel to the river, picking his way carefully past stones, fallen limbs and depressions in the soggy ground. With every step, he looked around. Searching. Hoping.

_Where are you, Colonel?_

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Olsen stared across the river's expanse, eyes squinted.

"You see something? Some more clothing?"

Olsen glanced over at Benson, then returned to his study of the far bank. His whisper floated across the distance separating them. "Nah. It's too dark and far away. But I was just--" He broke off suddenly, eyes snapping to Benson again. "Do you think that clothing we found was some of Newkirk or Hogan's?"

"I didn't--"

"Did you see what they were wearing tonight?" Olsen interrupted, speaking more rapidly as his fear grew.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Benson said with forced patience. He paused, dampening the natural urge to raise his voice. "I don't know if it was some of their clothes or not because I didn't see them before they left. The clothes Jones found could have been theirs or someone else's."

"Geez, I hope not," Olsen breathed. "That would mean somebody else fell in."

Benson said nothing for a moment. "What was it you started to say before?"

Olsen swallowed, darted another glance at the opposite bank. "I was just thinking--"

"What?"

The demand, soft as it was, still reached Olsen and Benson. They swung around. The rest of the squad had gathered behind them, Tivoli at point. Scowling, hands on hips, he moved closer. The rest of the men gathered around them to hear their quiet conversation.

"What were you thinking?" Tivoli repeated.

Olsen shrugged. "That Newkirk and the colonel might be on the other side. Maybe we should find a way across and look there, too."

"Rumplestiltskin's people are searching that side," Benson pointed out.

A rude sound of disgust rumbled from Tivoli's throat. Benson made a slicing motion across his own throat, warning him to keep the noise level down.

"You going to trust Fearless Leader's life to them?" Tivoli challenged, black eyes looking feral in the darkness. "They probably took a quick look around, got tired and said, 'Hey, he's not here. Too bad.' And hurried home to their nice, warm – safe - beds."

Olsen and Benson shared a quick look out of the corner of their eyes. Maddux stuffed his hands in his pockets, shifted his weight onto one foot and studied the ground. "Bed's sounding mighty nice right now."

The tense silence that stretched out finally registered upon Maddux. He jerked his head up, took in the glares being directed his way. A touch of defensiveness crept into his whisper. "Just saying it does, that's all."

Tivoli's glare lessened only when he looked back to Benson. "So? What do you say?"

"I guess you've got a point," Benson answered in a tight voice. "But Baker's orders were to search this side."

Tivoli rolled his eyes. "Did he say we **couldn't** search the other side?"

"No," Benson admitted, lips twitching at the roundabout logic.

"You're forgetting something, Tivoli," Olsen chimed in quietly, taking off his cap and raking a hand through his hair. Benson's gaze swung to him and lingered, taking in the deepening lines of fatigue in his face.

"Like how can we get **over** there?" Broughton asked rather plaintively with a palms-up gesture. Olsen started to respond, only to stop and look at Tivoli, who was staring toward the river, but also upward. Curious at the odd direction of his gaze, everyone followed Tivoli's line of sight. The tree was old, with several thick limbs extending out over the swift current. The longest didn't quite reach mid-way across.

"Oh, no," Jones whispered, shaking his head. "Not me, Tivoli. No way."

The Italian's black eyes flicked back and forth between the branch and the far bank. His soft voice took on a hard note of determination. "It might work with a long enough rope."

"You want us to do a Tarzan?" Maddux all but squeaked. He stared at Tivoli with eyes round as saucers, then across the water, gauging the distance. "Holy . . ." He breathed, then swallowed hard.

"It won't work," Benson argued, still being careful to keep his voice down. "The river's too wide. You'd have to tie the rope off clear out on the end of the branch. It wouldn't hold anyone's weight that far out. And another thing," he continued, ignoring Tivoli's steadily darkening expression. "The branch is too low to the water. We'd be in the river before we were even half way across."

Tivoli studied the tree, the river and the far bank. "Damn," he said softly, looking back at Benson and offering a weak smile. "I never was any good at geometry."

Benson's head snapped toward the trees to his left. Everyone instantly fell silent and turned in that direction, drawing their weapons. Without looking at them, Benson mouthed, "No guns." Tivoli's brows drew down, his swarthy features hardening. Benson's gaze cut in his direction, the look on his face curbing arguments. The men glanced at each other, then holstered their guns. Tivoli hesitated, eyes narrowed in anger, then grudgingly holstered his own.

Benson silently directed Tivoli and Broughton into the trees behind them, then sent Maddux and Jones circling the patrol from opposite directions.

Once the four men had silently slipped away, Olsen spun and punched Benson in the shoulder, hard enough to rock the bigger man on his feet. Benson grimaced, one hand going to the abused muscles. Olsen glared at him, smacked himself in the chest with his fist and raised his eyebrows. Benson shook his head, grabbed him by the arm and with some effort, pulled him down into a crouch. With a silent but eloquent snarl, Olsen tugged his arm free and settled in to await developments.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Newkirk carefully circled a tree in his path, glanced to his left at the river, then ahead. He stumbled to a stop, one hand going to the tree's trunk to hold himself up. The clearing was the same as all the others he had crossed with one exception. It contained a body. Hogan's. Newkirk drew an unsteady breath, heart rate going up to trip-hammer speed.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Well, that moment I saw the guv'nor lying there, stretched out on his side, all still like he was . . . . that was . . . that was bad. We had some close scrapes, all of us at one time or another. A few times some of us got messed up really, really bad. So bad that . . . "

"Ah, little mate. I'm all right, just had something in my eye. That's very thoughtful of you, but I've no need for your handkerchief. You put it back in your pocket. That's right. Tuck it in good so it won't fall out while you're playing."

"Now, where was I? Oh, that's right. Finding the guv'nor."

"It's funny how memory works, isn't it? Get to my age and it doesn't always work at all. But some memories are clear as the very instant they happened. Things get sort of impressed forever. Even some . . . Impressed, Teddy. Like handprints in cement. Too right, Katie. Just like the time your da let you put yours in the new front walk. Those handprints still stand right out, don't they? Well, some memories are like handprints or names written in cement . . . They stay with you forever."

_To be continued. Thank you for reading. _


	8. Chapter Seven

_Thank you, Marilyn! _

**Chapter Seven**

_He looks dead._

Hogan lay on his right side facing Newkirk, arms before him, fingers loosely curled. His face was unmarked, yet there was a sunken look to his eyes – or at least the eye that Newkirk could see. A wave of drenched, black hair covered the other.

Newkirk moved forward as fast as he could, dropped heavily to his knees and rolled Hogan onto his back. With fingers shaking from more than the cold, he checked Hogan's throat for a pulse – and found none.

"No," Newkirk moaned.

"_Your fingers are cold._" Hogan's voice, gently chiding, ghosted through Newkirk's mind. "_Warm them up and try again."_

Biting off a curse, Newkirk blew on his numb fingers, shoved them under his armpits for a forced count of twenty, then blew on them again. When they felt warmer, he pressed them to Hogan's carotid again and held his breath.

"Come on, Guv'nor," Newkirk hissed, leaning over Hogan's face and moving his fingers higher, just under the officer's jawline. "Come on!"

He slapped a palm down on Hogan's stomach, bent all the way over and put his ear right up to the colonel's mouth. A weak pulse registered under his fingertips at the exact moment he felt Hogan's stomach lift almost imperceptibly and a puff of air waft across his ear.

"ThankyouthankyouthankyouTHANKYOU!" Newkirk chanted, giddy with relief.

Sitting back, he stared down at his commander's white, still face and considered his next move. His hand remained upon Hogan's stomach, measuring the slow rise and fall.

For the moment at least, the primary danger confronting them was hypothermia. Especially for Hogan. According to information Carter had once wheedled from their friend Doktor Kurt Metzger, Hogan had nearly died once from hypothermia. For that reason, Metzger was afraid Hogan would be likely to succumb to it quicker than before.

_How right you were, Doc_. _He's an ice cube right now and I'm not all that far behind._

Shivering, teeth clacking together like castanets, Newkirk shook his head. His thoughts were growing foggy again. Struggling to keep the lethargy at bay, he glanced around. Nothing stood out as familiar. Fate or blind luck had dumped them both on the same side of the river. And that was pretty much all he knew at this point.

"_No it's not,"_ Hogan's quiet voice drawled in his mind. _"You **do** know more."_

Newkirk blinked. "I do?" He looked around again and suddenly understood what Hogan was prodding him to do.

Closing his eyes, Newkirk visualized the river and surrounding terrain. On his mental map, he pictured their starting point – the log footbridge – Stalag 13 and the rendezvous point. With those clearly pictured, he drew a line down river from the footbridge, generously estimating how far he thought they had gone. Then he flagged all the warm, dry, safe places that had been established for just such an emergency. Two were within reach. With a mounting sense of excitement, he traced a course to the closest one. By now, the alarm would have been sounded that they were missing. The hidey-holes were the first places search parties would check.

He patted Hogan's cheek. "All this lying about is no good, Guv'nor. Come on now, you've got to wake up. Setting a bad example, you are." Hogan failed to respond, so Newkirk landed a hard slap to his cheek. The blow rolled Hogan's head toward his shoulder, but again failed to wake him. Newkirk drew a deep breath.

"Well, then."

Clenching his chattering teeth, Newkirk managed to get his feet under him. He pulled Hogan to a sitting position, then paused as he spotted Hogan's jacket lying nearby. He glanced between it and Hogan, grimacing at the thought of wrapping the officer in more cold, wet clothing. He started to pull Hogan to his feet, then suddenly remembered the coded papers.

Lowering Hogan back to the ground, Newkirk went to the coat and to his surprise, found the leather pouch had survived the trip. After a moment's indecision, he tucked the pouch into Hogan's trouser pocket, then quickly stripped out of his own jacket. Thanks to what little body heat he had been generating, the material was slightly drier and consequently, warmer than Hogan's.

Several minutes later and much wrestling of damp material over an uncooperative, unconscious body, Newkirk sat back to catch his breath. Time for a personal pep talk. Hogan was still not awake, but neither was he dead.

_Take the good, Peter. Breathing. Life. Going to be fine. _

Pulling his feet under him again, he pulled Hogan's left arm over his shoulder, wrapped his arm around Hogan's waist and lifted.

Hogan suddenly twisted, his right fist looping out to catch Newkirk on the jaw. Surprised but not really hurt by the blow, Newkirk released him and stepped back. Hogan's legs buckled, then seemingly by sheer force of will, he gained enough control to stay semi-upright, his left arm swinging unnaturally at his side. His head lifted and slowly turned, his eyes tracking Newkirk without really seeing him.

Newkirk edged forward, one hand reaching out. "Colonel! It's me, Newkirk!"

Hogan lurched into motion, attempted to throw another right hook. Newkirk batted it away with little effort. He had seen newborn foals with more coordination.

"Stop, Colonel Hogan! It's all right! It's me!"

Hogan did a looping turn, fighting weak legs, then found his balance and lunged at Newkirk again. His right fist came up, his whole body telegraphing his intent.

Surging forward and ducking under the punch, Newkirk grabbed Hogan by the upper arms. Hogan tried to twist away, then his head shot up and back and he finally appeared to focus upon Newkirk's face. Relief flashed through his eyes and his lips curled into a weak smile. Newkirk smiled back, but kept his grip.

Hogan took a gulping breath. "Hey."

"Hey," Newkirk repeated softly, wincing at the weakness in the officer's voice.

"You . . ." Hogan paused, gave his head a little shake, as if trying to wake up. "You made it."

"Piece of cake, Guv'nor," Newkirk said with forced cheer, trying to bring a hint of normality to the situation.

Hogan squinted at him. "Hurt?"

"Don't go worrying about me," Newkirk scoffed. "Skull as thick as . . ." Hogan's lips twitched. Newkirk stopped, face going blank in realization. "That didn't come out right."

Hogan's gaze sharpened for a moment, then just as quickly lost focus again. He vaguely looked around, his movements slowing, his strength ebbing. A four-alarm blast went off in Newkirk's mind.

"Steady on. Stay with me."

Hogan's eyes wandered over Newkirk's face, his eyelids drooping. His head wavered on his neck, lolled, righted, then lolled again. Cursing, Newkirk grabbed him tighter. A low moan rolled from Hogan's throat, the sound tearing through Newkirk, locking him in place.

"What is it? What's wrong? Guv'nor!"

Hogan panted, head bowed. The pain had jolted him back to higher level of consciousness, but left him unable to speak. He shook his head, glanced up in apology from beneath his eyebrows. Newkirk merely nodded and waited, heart in his throat. A brief time passed, then Hogan licked his lips. His voice came out a mere whisper.

"Shoulder. Back. Something . . ."

Newkirk leaned closer, straining to hear and understand. "Your shoulder and back, is it?" He suddenly remembered the useless left arm and mentally kicked himself. "The left one then?"

Hogan nodded, still panting.

"Sorry, Guv'nor. I should have –" Newkirk stopped as Hogan waved off the apology. "Well, we can't have you running around like you are. Just hang on." He chuckled at the 'you've got to be kidding' look that came over Hogan's face.

One-handed, Newkirk unbuckled his belt and pulled it free from his trousers. He gazed from it to Hogan, weighing how best to proceed. He was going to need both hands. But Hogan was wavering and wobbling on his feet again, in imminent danger of collapsing. Once he was down, Newkirk was not sure he would have the strength to get him back up.

Slinging Hogan's good arm over his shoulders, Newkirk slowly led the officer over to a tree and propped him against it.

"Colonel Hogan." Newkirk caught Hogan's eyes, distressed to see the glazed look returning. "I'm going to strap that arm to you with my belt. Can you stand up for a few without my help?"

It was not immediately clear if Hogan had even understood him. Then the brown eyes blinked and Hogan's head bobbed once.

"All right, then," Newkirk warned, easing back ever so slightly while keeping one hand against Hogan's good side. "I'll be quick and gentle as I can." Hogan's response time was even longer than before, his eyes barely open. Newkirk gulped, recognizing the officer was fading fast.

It is amazing what desperation, adrenaline and sheer determination can accomplish. Even with cold and shaking hands, it took Newkirk only moments to secure the injured left arm tight against Hogan's body. Still, by the time Newkirk had finished, he was badly shaken, the sound of Hogan's moans affecting him more than he would have thought possible. The pain had to be tremendous.

"Still with me, sir?"

Long seconds passed before Hogan released a shuddering breath and nodded. Newkirk stared at the bowed head, wished more than ever they were back at camp and safe.

"Papers." Hogan's voice was a mere whisper.

Newkirk cocked his head forward, straining to hear. "Say again?"

Hogan's force of will rose up again at that moment, his brown eyes locking onto Newkirk's with startling lucidity. "Papers. Where . . . where are they?"

Newkirk nodded to Hogan's trouser pocket. "You've still got them. In your pocket, there."

"Take them."

"No need, guv'nor," Newkirk soothed, more concerned with keeping Hogan standing. "You keep them."

"No!" Hogan forced from between lips tinted blue from the cold. "Order. You . . ." his head dropped forward again and he took several panting breaths. "Better shape. Go. Leave me. Get them –"

"No, sir," Newkirk snapped, undeterred by the minor matter of rank. "We go together." Hogan's head came back up in one jerk, surprise and anger sharpening his gaze. Newkirk smiled grimly. If they both survived this night, he would be more than happy to face the consequences of his disobedience. "Save your strength for walking, Guv'nor." And with that, he guided Hogan forward.

_To be continued. Thank you for reading!_


	9. Chapter Eight

_As always, my thanks go to Marilyn, who makes all the difference._

**Chapter Eight**

Olsen lightly tapped the back of Benson's hand with an index finger, then pointed. Benson glanced downstream through the protection of the undergrowth and felt his stomach plummet. Two helmeted silhouettes, guns at the ready, were headed toward them, their movements controlled, purposeful.

Breathing in shallow sips of air, Benson held perfectly still. Olsen, pressed close by his side, did the same. They were silent, sheltered by darkness and thick brush, clothed in black, with blackened faces and black knit caps. Unless they moved or made some sound, the Germans would have to wade straight into the brush and fall over them to know they were there.

A rustling noise came from somewhere in the darkness off to their left.

Immediately, the Germans stopped and turned toward the sound. Benson saw one motion to some bushes growing near a stand of saplings. The other soldier nodded and crept toward them with slow, fluid steps.

Olsen's index finger tapped out rapid-fire Morse Code on the back of Benson's hand.

"_One of us? Hogan and Newkirk? What do we do?"_

Benson hesitated, warring with himself. Had the Germans found one of the others? Or by some twist of fate had they stumbled upon Hogan or Newkirk? Had their C.O. and friend been there the whole time, hurt and unconscious?

Ignoring his own orders, Benson pulled his gun. He felt Olsen shift, silently drawing his own weapon.

The soldier stalking the bushes stopped just short of them, hoisting his gun higher. His comrade mirrored the action, a cold look of anticipation falling over his face.

The soldier on point gave the bush a tentative poke with the barrel of his rifle. When nothing happened, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder at his comrade, his expression perfectly clear even in the weak light. _What do you think?_ The other soldier motioned him on with a sharp jerk of his chin.

The bush shook, branches rattled and a piercing yip went up. Something exploded out of the undergrowth, headed directly for the two soldiers' feet. They let out dual yells of alarm and jumped back, stumbling in their haste to get out of the way, jerking their rifles to follow their attacker's path. Their reactions were much too slow. The fleet-footed fox was long gone.

Mouths agape, the soldiers stared at each other in shared embarrassment, then - at almost the same moment - decided to laugh off the incident. Chuckling, one bent down and spread the lower branches of the bushes, revealing the fox's den.

Benson rested his hand and gun over his heart,lifted his eyes heavenward and sent a silent message to his departed father. Nathaniel Clark Benson had been an avid hunter, who's two main joys in life had been dancing with his wife and sharing his love of hunting with his only son.

_Sorry, Dad. But I'm never hunting fox again._

In the distance, a voice suddenly called out in German. The soldiers' casual postures dropped away and they sharply returned the hail. Within moments, the two Germans had become six.

Olsen's finger got busy again, tapped out, _"All of them?"_

Busy watching and listening, Benson responded with only a cursory twitch of one shoulder. He certainly hoped so. It was getting too crowded in the woods for comfort.

The Germans stood talking for several minutes. From the occasional bouts of laughter and animated gestures toward the fox den, Benson guessed that the two soldiers were sharing their encounter with the local wildlife.

Finally, the patrol headed upstream, paralleling the river at a leisurely pace. Their relaxed attitude and the late hour gave Benson hope that they were returning to base.

He let several minutes go by, then let out a quiet, throaty hoot of an owl – their squad's prearranged signal. After a short pause, there was a single answering hoot and the shadows came to life. Maddux eased into sight from between two trees, with Broughton only a few seconds behind. Jones appeared next and fell in beside them. Benson stood and made a slow turn, searching the darkness around them. His whisper was harsh, sounding loud in the silence.

"Where's Tivoli?"

**HH HH HH HH HH**

_Right, left, right. Wait. Was that . . . left, right, left? Right. Definitely. Oh, toss it._

Hogan and Newkirk were still moving – albeit like a couple punch-drunk slugs – but still moving.

Newkirk wished he could wipe away the sweat starting to run into his eyes, but he couldn't spare the hands. Both were currently full of colonel.

The effort of keeping six feet of near dead weight upright and walking was warming him up nicely. The same could not be said of Hogan. He was doing his best, but his coordination had not improved and his voice still had a strange, slurred quality that was frankly scaring Newkirk silly.

"Newkirk?" Hogan whispered, dragging another foot forward with painful slowness.

"Right here," Newkirk panted, using all his strength to steer them around a sapling. He felt Hogan's right leg fold again and quickly shifted his weight, bracing his hip against Hogan's to hold him up. Once the officer seemed steadier, Newkirk glanced up to chart their next steps and smiled. Ahead lay another small area free of brush and trees.

_Oh, good. No roots, rocks or logs. A few twigs. Can handle twigs. Small ones._

Hogan's head moved, angling slightly toward him. In the faint light, his eyes looked pitch black and unnaturally large. Newkirk's heart lurched, a suffocating sense of dread falling over him again. Hogan's mouth worked, struggling to form words.

"Sor –" Hogan gasped - and went down.

_To be continued. Thank you for reading! _


	10. Chapter Nine

_As always, my thanks go to Marilyn, who makes all the difference._

**Chapter Nine**

Even prepared and at full strength, Newkirk could not support one hundred seventy pounds in free-fall. Hogan's nosedive jerked him off his feet and he fell heavily over his CO's upper back. Winded, he struggled to get off the motionless body beneath him.

"Cuh-" Newkirk gasped, floundering and then managing to push himself off Hogan's back and onto his knees. "Colonel Hogan! Colonel!"

He tugged and pushed Hogan onto his back. Cajoling, begging and slapping had no effect. Murmuring apologies, Newkirk resorted to desperate measures and shoved down hard on the officer's injured shoulder, hoping the pain would rouse Hogan as it had before. Not a twitch or moan. The officer was deeply unconscious. Too deep for even pain to reach him.

Newkirk sought out the slow beat in Hogan's neck, flinching at the skin's corpse-like iciness. He stared, his mind spinning in fear.

_Fell like a stone. Out like a light. Cold as ice. Dead to the world._

The last cliché broke his control. Newkirk clutched Hogan's shoulders, leaned close and called to him, trying to reach the officer with his voice.

"Guv'nor, please. Wake up. We're close. Just a little further. You can do it."

Warmth blurred the vision in Newkirk's eye. Impatiently, he brushed the back of his hand across it, then stilled, startled again by the sight of blood on his hand.

_Lovely. Must have re-opened the cut when we fell. Doesn't matter._

Using his sleeve, he blotted the stickiness away from his eye, then wasted no more time on his own needs. The longer Hogan went without help, the closer he moved to death's door. And in Newkirk's vivid imagination, his CO already had one foot across the threshold with the Grim Reaper's skeletal hand locked around his wrist pulling him onward.

_Carry him? Can I? Never know until I try. Got to try._

Realistically, he knew his chances at actually accomplishing the feat were slim to none. His exertions had warmed him, even dried his clothing in places. But he felt shaky, sapped of most of his strength from having been so cold, and his head was throbbing with sickening intensity.

_Not going to stop me from trying. I'm not letting you die, Guv'nor. _

"You hear that, Guv'nor?" Newkirk demanded, staggering to his feet. "You," he hissed, leaning down to grab up Hogan's good arm. "Are not . . . " he pulled the limp body into a sitting position, then taking a deep breath, hauled him onto his back. "Going to die!"

He managed two tiny steps - and then fell flat on his face, Hogan's weight pinning him to the ground. Groaning in pain, Newkirk closed his eyes and pillowed his aching head on his arm.

"Oh, well done, Peter."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Where is that –" Bensonmuttered under his breath, raking the trees with another seething glare. He did not believe anything had happened to the fiery Italian. But if he did not show up in the next sixty seconds, Benson was going to make certain something did.

Maddux's nostrils flared in anger and he took a single, measured step toward Benson. "Hold on one daggone minute. Tivoli would never-"

"No, I wouldn't."

The Italian seemed to magically appear at the edge of the trees behind Jones, Broughton and Maddux. He sauntered closer and stopped in front of Benson, hands coming to rest on his hips. A smirk curled his lips.

"I found a way across."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Look, Katie. There's one of your friends over there by the nature path. What was her name again? Oh, yes. April. Nice name, that. Looks like she's got a new bicycle. Do you want to go play with her? I can finish this another –"

"Steady on! No need to yell so loud. My hearing isn't **that** bad. I was teasing you lot. Not done yet, by far. Just let me get a drink from the fountain over there first. There's still some telling to this tale and I'm a bit parched. Be right back."

"See. Didn't take long, even with this bum leg. Benjamin, where did you put that gum you were chewing on? Katie? Teddy? A little help, here. Where did he – Oh, that's good. You did good, little mate. What? Well, it's wise to always check things out before sitting. Especially in a park with wee ones around. And gum. And pigeons. Remember that. Saves on the cleaning bills."

"Now, if we're all comfortable again, let's get back to the tale."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Wait a minute," Benson ordered Tivoli, not realizing his words nearly echoed Maddux's from a moment before. Shifting his gaze to Maddux, Benson said, "Follow that patrol. If they don't find Newkirk and Hogan, go directly back to camp. If they do find them, don't do anything, no matter how much you want to. Just beat it back to camp and let Baker know about it. Got it?"

Maddux glanced at Tivoli, then back at Benson. "Got it." He moved forward, but Benson stopped him with a hand to the chest.

"Be careful. I've gotten used to seeing your ugly mug hanging around."

Maddux studied him for a long moment, then took off into the trees after the Germans. Benson turned to Jones.

"This is it for you and Olsen –"

"Hey!" Olsen's whisper vibrated with indignation. "What –"

"Let them know what's going on," Benson continued stolidly, ignoring Olsen's glare. "Baker's probably going ape by now."

Tivoli let out a quiet snort of amusement, turning his head to stare out at the river. Determined he was not going to be ignored, Olsen stepped around Benson and into his field of vision.

"Benson, I –"

Benson grabbed him by the nape of the neck and pulled him off to the side. "Look, Olsen. I don't have time to sugar this up. The night's almost gone and we need to move fast. You're running on fumes and I can't be worrying about you passing out somewhere when I'm not looking. At this point, you're more hindrance than help. You've done all you can. Now go with Jones." He looked into the dark, wounded eyes, softening his harsh words by murmuring, "I understand how you feel."

Olsen slowly exhaled, all the fight draining out of him. Giving Benson a shaky grin, he swung around to face the others, who were waiting with ill-concealed impatience.

"You heard him, Jonesie. Let's go home."

Benson watched the two men until they disappeared from view, conscious of Tivoli and Broughton watching him in turn. Steeling himself, he pivoted on his heel to face them.

"We're not crossing."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Now, now. I'm coming to that. All in good time, Teddy. You get much farther out on the bench and you're going to fall off. Sit back now. Katie, what did I tell you about that shoe? On, young miss."

"Tivoli wasn't all that bad, little mate. But he seemed that way when he first came to Stalag 13. Prickly as a pear, that one, with a chip on his shoulder so big it would have given a gorilla pause. Many a time, we asked Colonel Hogan why he didn't send him packing. But the guv'nor would just tell us to 'give him a little more time.' "

"Always suspected the colonel of being clairvoyant or some – Clair-voy-ant, Benjamin. Say it slow, like. That's right. Wrap your tongue around it. What's it mean? Tell him, Teddy. That's right. It means being able to see into the future. Katie, that gypsy lady with the crystal ball was no clairvoyant. No, sweet, she was not. Those numbers she gave me didn't play out at all. Like flushing my money down a drain."

"Is the colonel a gypsy? Sorry, Katie, I didn't mean to laugh so. But I don't think he has a drop of gypsy blood in him. Well, yes, poppet. He did have that black hair, but that didn't make him a gypsy."

"All right, then, Teddy. There'll be no more talk of gypsies. Now, I believe we left Tivoli and Benson about to butt heads . . ."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Why aren't we crossing?" Tivoli demanded, stalking toward Benson.

"I don't need to give you a why," Benson fired back, stopping the Italian with a hard, level stare. "But I will, anyway. Any attempt to cross the river while it's in flood would be dangerous, especially when we've already got people searching that side. Now you give me an answer. Why are you so determined to get over there?"

"Newkirk and Fearless Leader don't have time for us to stand ar—"

"That's right!" Benson snapped, taking a step forward. "They don't! And I'm sick and tired of hearing you call the colonel 'Fearless Leader'! His name is Hogan. **Colonel** Hogan." Without thinking, he pressed the point home by stabbing his finger to the hard muscle of Tivoli's chest.

Tivoli's hand locked around Benson's wrist with crushing pressure. Benson schooled his expression, refusing to show any sign of pain. Staring calmly into the black eyes, he ordered, "Let go."

Broughton restlessly shifted his feet, his gaze passing back and forth between the two men.

"That wasn't a request," Benson snarled, feeling the pressure on his wrist increase. Tendons screamed and bones creaked, perilously close to the breaking point. He showed no outward distress, but for the first time, felt a flicker of unease. A spasm of pain suddenly shot up his arm, sending sparks dancing across his vision.

Some indefinable emotion flickered over Tivoli's face and his grip abruptly relaxed. Benson carefully withdrew his wrist, resisting the desire to flex it or rub the bruised flesh.

"Give me a good reason, or drop it, Tivoli."

Tivoli spun and walked away. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides while he paced a small circle, clearly fighting with himself. Benson watched impatiently for a few moments, then glanced overhead. Dawn was only a few hours away.

As though he had heard, the Italian whirled and in two quick strides, was in Benson's face again.

"You want to know why? Because we haven't seen any sign of them over here, other than those clothes and they may have nothing to do with Hogan and Newkirk at all. Because those 'people' searching on the other side are Krauts and might do the same thing my CO did when we got shot down."

Benson found the small bit of personal information interesting, but still said nothing. His lack of response stoked the Italian's anger.

"The cowardly S.O.B. left me!" Tivoli snapped. "He saved his own sorry butt and left me in our plane, bleeding to death! He wasn't hurt - could have gotten me out, but when he heard that Kraut patrol coming, he tucked his little yellow tail between his legs and ran away, damnit!" He paused, visibly fighting for control. In a calmer, steadier voice, he went on. "I swore to never turn my back on anyone like he did me. If **Colonel Hogan** had been in that plane with me, he would have done all he could to get me out."

"We'll miss roll call if we do cross over," Benson countered.

"Do you thinkthe colonelwould let that stop him?" Tivoli challenged with a sly smile.

Benson pursed his lips, then turned to Broughton, who was staring at Tivoli like he had never seen him before.

"Keep searching this side for another hour, then go home." Benson held up an index finger, forestalling arguments. "One hour. Then home."

Broughton responded with a sharp nod and disappeared into the woods, leaving Benson and Tivoli alone. Later, it would occur to Benson that for the first time, Broughton had not looked to Tivoli for counsel. And that Tivoli had not seemed bothered by it.

"All right," Benson sighed, hoping he had made the correction decision. "Show me what you found."

_To be continued. Thank you for reading and your reviews! _


	11. Chapter Ten

_As always, my thanks go to Marilyn, who makes all the difference. The middle part of this chapter is unbeta-ed since it got thrown in at the last moment. _

Chapter Ten 

_As always, my thanks go to Marilyn, who makes all the difference. The middle part of this chapter is unbeta-ed since it got thrown in at the last moment._

**Chapter Ten**

"Hmm?"

"Sorry about that. Got lost in memories again. Now, don't you go worrying that fine head of yours, Benjamin. I'm all right. It's just that I've never talked to anyone outside of my mates about that night. And not like I am with you all now. Never was one for deep talking. No, no. I'm fine with the telling of it for you. Of course it's 'cause you're special, Benjamin. You're very welcome, as always. Gives me great pleasure to share our adventures with such an appreciative audience."

"That night holds a lot of memories for me. Real clear ones. Yes, Katie. Just like those handprints."

"What's that? Did you say 'most-est', Benjamin? You've gone and made a new word, there, little mate. Quite like it, I do. Teddy, leave off. He's talking just fine. Probably talk circles around you one day."

"The thing I remember the most about that night? How scared I was. Nothing wrong with admitting you're afraid, Teddy. But I wasn't afraid for me. I was scared for the guv'nor. Of losing him, Katie. Not actually LOSING him like you lost your favorite hair ribbon, no. Losing as in hearing him breathe his last breath, as in knowing he was . . . gone. That's right, Benjamin. Like when Floppsy went to sleep."

"Now Katie, stop fretting. I've been telling you Colonel Hogan's still among the living. You know I wouldn't say so if he wasn't, sweet. Maybe one day you lot will get to meet him. No and no. Not tomorrow. No, Benjamin . . . now. . . steady on! All right, all right! I've been meaning to ring him. I'll see if he's keen to visit. Been awhile. It'd be good to get together again. Might ring up the rest of the mates, too. Be like old times."

"Here, now! Katherine Elizabeth, stop hopping up and down on the bench! Sit down before you do yourself a mischief. Might fall right off on your head. Teddy! Be kind to your sister, mate.

My goodness, poppet. Haven't seen you so excited since your da bought you that pony – whatzisname. Gordo. Sorry. Don't know how I could have forgotten such a distinguished name."

"Hang about. Got some sleeve yanking go on. We've gotten off track again, haven't we, little mate? All right then. Let's get back to the tale."

"Teddy, remind me. Where were we? Oh, yes. Thank you. Losing the guv'nor. Well, that night . . . I started thinking that he wasn't going to make it. That maybe nothing I did would make any difference, that it had been too long . . . and that I'd have to say my good-byes to him out there in that woods."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Cursing his clumsy limbs, Newkirk clawed at the ground, slowly pulled himself out from under Hogan's body. With the sound of his ragged breathing in his ears, he rolled onto his hands and knees, swaying dizzily from fatigue and pain. Once the wooziness had subsided and he was seeing only one of everything again, he crawled to Hogan's side.

He took one look at his CO's gray face and a single thought surfaced in a bubble of panic.

_He's not going to make it._

Just as quickly as the panic had appeared, he shoved it away. That was the last thing either of them needed.

Newkirk got off his knees, carefully slipped his hands under Hogan's arms and started dragging him toward a nearby tree.

Once at the tree, he wrestled and tugged Hogan into a sitting position near the tree's base. Without a moment's embarrassment, Newkirk got in behind him, wrapped his arms around Hogan's stomach and pulled him close. It was the best he could manage and he knew it would not be enough. At this point, it would take more than the warmth of a single body to keep Hogan alive. Despair sent his spirits plummeting. Weary, he rested his chin atop Hogan's good shoulder.

His friends' faces suddenly appeared in the air before him, their voices popping one by one into his mind. His head came back up, his eyes locking in disbelief on their wraithlike forms.

_You can do it, Newkirk! _said the Carter vision, blue eyes at their most imploring.

_You're doing fine,_ came Kinch's soft, supportive voice.

"'Fine'?" Newkirk hurled back at his friend. His eyes slid sideways to his CO's face. "Does he bloody well look like I've done 'fine' so far? He's dying!"

_Talk to him, mon ami,_ LeBeau suggested, looking much healthier than the last time Newkirk had seen him.

Kinch floated in behind LeBeau. _You were talking to him before. Why'd you stop?_

Newkirk just stared. His mind was slowing down like one of the tin wind-up toys he had once craved as a small boy. He would stand for hours in front of Tudbury's big window displays, watching the little tin wonders. The toys would spin, roll, tumble and march as long as tension remained in their springs.

"It's no good, mates," Newkirk sighed, laying his chin back down on Hogan's shoulder. "Me spring's done sprung." His eyelids lowered, feeling incredibly heavy.

_Come on, Peter!_ the Carter vision begged, drifting closer. _Don't give in! The colonel needs you!_

_Don't let him die, _LeBeau's hazy form told him, sounding close to tears.

A spark of anger pulled Newkirk's head back up. "I bloody well said I wouldn't, now didn't I? I -" He suddenly stopped speaking as his words sunk in.

A small grin flashed across Kinch's face. _That's right, you did. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and get back to talking to him._

_It worked before_, the Carter image reminded Newkirk.

_He wasn't a bloody icicle then!_ Newkirk whispered back irritably. Still, he admitted to himself, their voices had once brought Hogan back from a coma-like state. He shifted, tightened his arms around Hogan's limp body; glared at his friends' hazy faces. _Just blooming wonderful. Even my hallucinations argue with me_

_Hey, we're trying to help_, protested Carter, who was presently hovering within a few feet of him.

_C'est vrai!_ LeBeau agreed, his brown eyes looking fierce in his ghostly face.

Newkirk's scowl softened. "And you did just that. Thanks, mates. Guess I needed a goodtalking to, myself. Better get back to it, then." The visions threw him smiles and salutes – and then in the blink of an eye - disappeared.

Newkirk softly cleared his throat and started talking.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Benson was not sure what he had expected. A bridge that they had not bombed yet, maybe. But not this.

"It's a boat."

"Wow, nothing gets by you." Tivoli tossed off the last of the branches that had concealed the rowboat.

"An **old** boat." Benson gave it another dubious look. Strips of brittle paint curled from its board sides, rust colored the oarlocks and he didn't see an anchor anywhere.

"Okay, it's old, but there aren't any holes and it has both oars, too."

"You sure don't."

Tivoli's face screwed up at the pithy observation. "What's the matter with you? It's a way across! Now help me get it in the water." He grabbed onto the side of the boat with both hands and started to drag it down the bank. Feeling a lack of assistance, he paused and looked back. Benson showed no sign of moving. Tivoli slowly straightened, his hands coming to rest on his hips.

"What?"

"I'm not getting in that thing."

"I told you, there's nothing--" Tivoli's eyes suddenly widened, comprehension flattening his tone. "You can't swim."

"A lot of people can't swim!" Benson returned too quickly.

"You're from Michigan, for crying out loud!"

"We lived seventy miles from the closest lake," Benson growled, shoulders drawing up as his tension level climbed a notch higher. He pointedly avoided looking at the boat again. "I just never got around to learning, is all. And how did you know that I'm from Michigan?"

"Oh, for--" Tivoli threw his hands into the air. "Italians have ears just like everybody else!"

Benson had the grace to look embarrassed. But he still refused to look at what he considered the poorest excuse for a boat he had ever seen.

Tivoli studied him; scowl deepening. "Here's another news flash for you. I'm from Michigan, too, and unlike you, I practically grew up on the water."

Benson stared at him in surprise. "You're from Michigan? Where?"

Tivoli showed his teeth in a cool, slightly mocking smile. "Quit stalling."

Benson casually glanced down at the elderly boat. "Who do suppose put this thing here?"

"Popeye!" Tivoli snapped with a frustrated look heavenward. He stooped, grabbed hold of the boat again. "Now help me get it in the water!"

"The current's too strong. We'll be swept downstream." Despite his pessimism, Benson bent down and reluctantly put his weight into pushing against the boat's stern. It parted from the mud with a wet sucking sound and started slowly sliding along the ground.

"My school had the best sculling squad in the state," Tivoli told him, muscles bunching from the effort of guiding the boat's bow into the water. With a grunt of satisfaction, he reached back, shifting his grip. "I'll get us there."

"I don't suppose you've noticed there aren't any life-preservers in this tub," Benson protested, hating the whine in his voice. With a last combined effort, the boat slid free of the bank and into the water. It bobbed and rocked upon the waves, anchored only by Tivoli's hands, which were locked upon the stern and side. Water slapped at the boat's sides, as if trying to pull it from his grasp. He looked up at Benson, who remained motionless on the bank.

"Get in the boat," Tivoli said with marked patience.

Benson held up an index finger, mouth opening to speak. Tivoli's black brows drew together, his patience slipping.

"Get . . . in . . . the. . . boat."

Benson dropped his hand to his side. "I swear, Tivoli, if I drown, I'm coming back to haunt you." He sucked in a breath and with a great deal of trepidation, stepped forward and lowered one foot into the boat. It lurched under his weight, listing badly in the water. Benson's hand shot out, fingers clamping upon Tivoli's shoulder. His other hand waved wildly in the air, straining for balance.

"It's all right," Tivoli assured him in a surprisingly gentle voice. "You're not going to fall."

Trying to ignore the dark water on either side, Benson gingerly shifted his stance, transferring his full weight onto the rocking boat. He took a moment to get his balance, then lifted his other foot off the comfort of solid ground and into the boat. Straddle-legged and stiff as a board, one hand still locked on Tivoli's shoulder, he tried to adjust to the strange feeling of the boat constantly shifting on the waves.

"Okay?" Tivoli asked, his voice still gentle.

"Yeah," Benson breathed, appreciating the Italian's support. Tentatively, expecting to tip headfirst over the side, he slowly released Tivoli's shoulder. The boat remained relatively steady beneath him. He flashed a grin at the Italian, hugely relieved.

Tivoli's answering grin was genuine. "Okay. Real slow, go forward and sit down. I'll keep hold of the boat. Take it easy."

Arms out to his sides, Benson did as ordered, breath whooshing out in relief the moment his rump hit the board seat. Fearing splinters from the worn wood, he stayed perfectly still. With slow, careful movements, Tivoli stepped off the bank and into the boat, taking the other board seat. Without anything anchoring it, the boat immediately pivoted with the current and started drifting downstream. Benson glanced over at the other bank, then down at the water buoying them along with impressive speed.

"Uh . . ."

"Don't worry," Tivoli grunted, seating the boat's oars in their oarlocks. They shot home in the rusty cradles, creaked and squealed as he set them in motion. Shoulders and arms dipping and straining, he expertly worked the oars, slowing the boat's forward progress. Benson watched in silence until it suddenly registered that his feet were wet. Alarmed, he looked down at the bottom of the boat. Water was trickling in at a steady rate from between the boards. Benson clamped his hands on the boat's sides, lifted his feet out of the water, and glared across the boat at Tivoli.

"You said there were no holes!"

"There aren't," came Tivoli's quiet, level reply. "But the caulking isn't all that great."

"I hate you," Benson sighed, staring mournfully at the rising water level. _Rub-a-dub-dub, two fools in a tub_, he thought, already planning inventive ways to haunt Tivoli.

Still rowing with steady, even strokes, the Italian took his gaze off the far shore and made eye contact with him. "Hold on."

Benson blinked, ice seizing his spine. "Wh--"

The boat jerked, scraping rock and sand, throwing Benson forward on his seat and sending his feet back into the water with a splash. If not for his death-grip on the boat's sides, he would have ended up face down between Tivoli's boots.

"All ashore who's going ashore," Tivoli quietly sang out, grinning. Saving the urge to throttle the Italian, Benson twisted on the seat, looked behind him. They had gone aground - on the other side of the river - not in the middle of the river as he had feared. He glanced back, into a pair of laughing eyes.

"You –"

Tivoli flicked the fingers of one hand at him, shooing him off the boat. "A-vast and away with ye, me hearty. Thar's savin' to be done."

"It's a good thing 'I have but one concern'1, Mr. Christian." With studied grace, Benson eased himself off the seat and – proudly displaying not a bit of his former awkwardness or trepidation – stepped out of the boat and onto the bank.

Tivoli stowed the oars, joined Benson on solid ground and with his help, dragged the rowboat out of the water. Once it was concealed in the undergrowth, Tivoli turned to Benson, gestured expansively to the trees at their backs.

"After you, Captain Bligh."

"I liked you better without a sense of humor," Benson muttered sourly under his breath. Ignoring Tivoli's soft chuckle, he entered the woods by way of a well-used deer path.

1 Captain Bligh in Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall's 1932 novel _Mutiny on the Bounty_. "I have but one concern – our mission."

_To be continued. Thank you for reading and your reviews! _


	12. Chapter 11

_As always, my thanks go to Marilyn, who makes all the difference. _

**Chapter Eleven**

"Too right, Teddy. There was a lot going on that night and not just in the woods. Remember, our mates back at camp had other worries besides us being missing."

"Oh, that bluh—blasted sickness was much worse than your mumps were, little mate. Yes, you had quite a time of it, didn't you? Looked miserable you did, with your little cheeks all puffed up like you'd tried to swallow a can of peanuts all in one go. Yes, you were quite a sight. Gave us all a bit of a fright. No, Teddy, I wasn't trying on a rhyme just then."

"Benjamin? I can't hear you over the racket this ruddy flock of pigeons is making. Here now, Katie. Stop leading them on like you have some popcorn. I don't like the way they're eyeing us up. Nasty birds. Never have liked them since that time Igotstuckout on that ledge. Hang on while I take care of them. Just sit still while a master goes to work."

"There now. Much better. Nothing like the sound of a mad German Shepherd to scatter the little feather dusters to the winds. Nice to know I still got the giftfor mimicry. No, Teddy, I'm not going to teach you how. Yourpracticing will drive your mum round the ruddy twist and then she'll come looking for me."

"What was that you weretrying to askme before, Benjamin? Oh. No, can't say as we took a snap of you with your mumps. Sorry. Didn't think of it. Well, take it up with your mum and da, all right? Katie's got something she wants to ask."

"No, poppet, no one died from the sickness. But it was a close thing for many, and some took months to fully recover their strength. That sickness gave us all a rough time. A very rough time, indeed."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Come on, now. You need this."

Parker considered the cup of water, licked dry, cracking lips, then gazed up at O'Malley with pleading eyes. O'Malley started to encouragehim again, but was distracted when the barracks door opened. Schultz walked in, blue eyes peeking over another stack of blankets.

"Try, okay?" O'Malley wrapped Parker's hand around the cup, then quickly stood and waved to get Schultz's attention. He did not know where the guard was coming up with all the blankets, but he was grateful for them. "Over here, Schultz."

Schultz pinpointed his location and carefully moved in his direction. Upon reaching O'Malley, Schultz glanced down at Parker sipping the water and his forehead furrowed in confusion. "Why is Parker in Paxton's bed?" He turned slightly, swept the room with a glance. "And LeBeau in Olsen's? And . . ."

"We switched everybody around." O'Malley grabbed a blanket off the stack, walked across the room and spread it over Braveheart. The ill man curled up, blankets creeping higher over his shoulders until only his black hair showed. O'Malley took another blanket and passed it to Paxton, who gently unfolded it over Carter. The sergeant stirred, opening blue eyes that looked considerably clearer. O'Malley touched the back of his hand to Carter's forehead and his frown melted into a smile. The fever had finally broken. O'Malley smiled down at him, then turned back to Schultz, who had been quietly observing.

"The sick guys are in the bottom bunks so they can get to the bucket in a hurry."

"Oh," Schultz murmured, rocking back on his heels. He certainly would not want to be on an upper bunk when the nausea struck. Or be the person on the lower bunk when it happened, either.

O'Malley relieved Schultz of the rest of the blankets and carried them to the table. "Paxton is better now, so he's letting Parker use his bunk. LeBeau is in Olsen's bunk for the same reason."

Schultz briefly pondered the arrangements, then nodded his acceptance. It made sense.

O'Malley suddenly rounded on Schultz, voice strained with concern. "I hope you're not going to tell me the kommandant's decided to start the roll calls back up because the worst of the sickness is over?"

"Nein," Schultz quickly assured him. "The kommandant is ill now, too. His orders are to continue with the bed checks." He started slowly walking around the room, doing a head count. O'Malley watched the slow, careful movements with some concern. Schultz had been one of the first of the guards to become ill and had spent several days in the camp infirmary.

"You're still feeling okay aren't you, Schultz?"

Schultz paused beside Carter's bed. "Ja, danke." He leaned down and gently patted Carter on the shoulder. The sergeant peered up at him, a weak smile appearing. Schultz moved on, headed for Hogan's quarters. O'Malley jerked in alarm, took off after him.

"Don't go in there, Schultz." O'Malley grabbed Schultz by the arm and tugged him away from the door. "The colonel and Newkirk are sleeping."

Schultz frowned. "Why is Newkirk not in his own bunk? Is he sick now, too?"

"No, he's just exhausted, and it's quieter in the colonel's quarters. He's worn out from helping me. He needs to rest and if he's out here, he won't."

"He has been doing a lot," Schultz confirmed. "Carter and the little cockroach, too." He paused, worriedly gazed at Carter. "And now Carter and LeBeau are sick."

"Yeah," O'Malley sighed, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.

"Is Colonel Hogan ill?" Schultz asked, worry evident in his voice.

"Aye, I hope not," O'Malley muttered, closing his eyes.

Schultz frowned at him, appeared ready to say something else, then looked around the room, instead.

"Where is Olsen? And Kinchloe?"

"They're in with the colonel and Newkirk."

"Why --"

"To make certain they rest," O'Malley said hurriedly, growing weary of the questions and need for fast-thinking. He rubbed his temple, feeling a headache coming on.

Schultz's eyebrows shot up. "Both Kinchloe and Olsen?"

"Kinch is keeping Olsen company."

Schultz dropped the subject with a shrug. He turned and sat down at the table, brought one beefy hand up to lie flat upon its surface. O'Malley paused, struck by the sadness in Schultz's face.

"Schultz?" he called softly. "Something wrong?"

Schultz's eyes flicked in his direction, then returned to studying his hand. "The kommandant will not let any of us leave Stalag 13 yet. I miss Gerta and the Kinder."

O'Malley lowered his gaze, his own emotions fairly close to the surface. "You know it's for the best, Schultz," he murmured, looking up again.

"Ja, ja," Schultz sighed. "I would not want them to suffer this sickness." He slowly brushed his fingers over the table's top, stopped to pick at an imaginary splinter.

O'Malley grasped for something to lighten the guard's mood. "Hey, just think of what a homecoming you'll have when you do get to go home." Schultz looked up at him, a smile taking shape. He nodded, eagerness and love warming his voice.

"Gerta will probably fix a large meal." Schultz smacked his lips, smile in full bloom now. "And we'll all sit down together."

"That's right." O'Malley went to him, plucked at his sleeve. "Come on, now. Go get some more fresh air and let me get back to work, okay?"

Schultz turned for Hogan's quarters again. "First, I must check that Colonel Hogan, Newkirk, Kinchloe and Olsen are accounted for."

"I'll do it for you." O'Malley hurried ahead of him to Hogan's quarters. After a glance back to confirm that Schultz had not ventured too close, he pushed the door open just far enough to stick his head inside the room. "Hi, guys. No, no. Everything's okay. Just checking for Schultz that you're here." He pulled his head out again, swiftly closed the door. "They're all in there, all right."

Schultz gave him a narrow stare, as if seeing through the deception. With a shake of his head and a knowing look at Hogan's closed door, he turned to leave. O'Malley walked with him, helpfully opened the door for him. "Thanks for bringing more blankets, Schultz. Please tell the kommandant we hope he feels better soon."

Schultz's face lit up with a beaming smile. "Such a nice fellow to wish the kommandant well. I will tell him." He took a step toward the doorway then turned back. "You are very welcome for the blankets." He went out, then stuck his head back inside the barracks. His voice was heavy with concern as he looked directly into O'Malley's startled eyes. "Do not forget that you, also, need to rest."

A flush of warmth spread through O'Malley. Schultz was a big softie. "Aye, Schultz. You're not such a bad fellow, yourself. Now don't you be worrying about me. I'll be fine." Seeing the bunk entrance opening out of the corner of his eye, O'Malley pushedhim all the way out and shoved the door closed.

"Kinch!" O'Malley met the sergeant in the middle of the room. "Have you heard something?"

"No." Kinch sat down beside Carter's bed, gave the young man a smile and tugged his blanket up. Carter grimaced and immediately lowered it again. "Not a word. Baker's still at the radio." His gaze lifted, floated around the room, checking.

"Schultz brought some more blankets by and did a head count." O'Malley leaned back against the bunks' support; crossed his feet at the ankles.

Kinch's eyes flew wide, his mouth falling open. "I forgot all about the head count!"

"Could that be because you've been ill?" O'Malley asked, a merry twinkle appearing in his eyes. "Don't worry. I convinced him you were in the colonel's quarters, along with him, Newkirk and Olsen." He threw a quick look at the barracks door. "And since the alarms haven't sounded, the guys in the other barracks must have found a way to cover the goon squad's absence, too."

Kinch arched an eyebrow in confusion. "Goon squad?"

O'Malley chuckled. "Baker's guys. Lyons, Benson, Olsen, Broughton, Jones, Maddux, and Tivoli."

Kinch's other eyebrow went up. "That's quite a –"

"Goon squad," O'Malley interrupted smoothly in a bland, conversational tone.

"I was going to say 'group'." A corner of Kinch's mouth quirked in a grin. "And Benson and Olsen might not appreciate that colorful description."

"So we won't tell them," O'Malley shrugged, grinning as well.

Kinch's chuckle died as his gaze fell upon LeBeau. Paxton was sponging the Frenchman's face, speaking softly to him. LeBeau muttered, kicked at the blanket over his feet. Sensing Kinch's gaze, Paxton glanced up at him and sadly shook his head.

"His fever's pretty high," O'Malley said softly, watching LeBeau shove Paxton's hand away from his face. "But no higher than when he came in. We're keeping a close eye on it." He looked back at Kinch and after a brief pause, said, "You should be resting, by the way, not running around in the tunnels using up what little strength you've managed to regain."

Impatience flickered over Kinch's face. He looked down at Carter, studied the younger man's pallid features. "I'm not going back to bed," he growled. "I couldn't rest even if I did, so just leave it alone." He glanced up, then suddenly peered hard at O'Malley. "You feeling okay?"

O'Malley uncrossed his feet and straightened away from the bunk. "Yeah." His attention briefly turned inward and he admitted what he had not to Schultz. "A little tired. A wee bit of a headache."

"Find an empty bunk and lie down. I'll help Paxton keep an eye on everyone."

O'Malley's jaw clenched, his arms moving to fold firmly across his chest. His brogue thickened as it always did when he was especially tired or upset.

"I'll be lying down when you do."

Kinch's glare was answer enough. Having reached an impasse, several minutes of silence stretched between them. Then O'Malley turned toward the tunnel entrance and his arms shifted position over his chest, as though he were hugging himself.

"Kinch –"

"They're alive," Kinch snapped, painfully aware of Carter's eyes flying open. "Until we have proof, I refuse to believe they aren't."

Carter pushed up onto his elbows, his gaze rapidly shifting back and forth between them. "Who . . . who are you talking about?" Too weak to maintain the position, he slumped back onto the mattress. His expression fell when neither man would look him in the eye. "Come on, fellas," he whispered. "Who is it?"

"Newkirk and the colonel are missing," Kinch admitted, knowing it would be unfair to keep the news from him. "We're looking, Andrew."

"Oh, geez," Carter breathed. He sank further into the mattress, blue eyes huge in his pale face. "They'll be okay. Right, Kinch?"

"Right," Kinch repeated, staring steadily at O'Malley. The medic looked away, his answer so soft Carter almost missed it.

"Right."

_To be continued. Thank you for reading!_


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

The clipboard flew across the radio room, struck the tunnel brace, and with a flutter and crackle of paper, landed upside down in the dirt. Immediately ashamed at losing control, Baker left the stool and went to retrieve the board. He picked it up, slowly brushed dirt from the smudged papers. With a sigh that felt like it had come from the depths of his soul, he shuffled back to the radio set.

The radio's silence had been broken by only a single contact in the last few hours. Tiger's demeanor had been tightly controlled, completely professional. But Baker had been unsurprised to hear the underlying fear in her voice. The beautiful woman's feelings for his CO were obvious to anyone who paid attention. Whether Tiger's feelings were reciprocated, however, was anyone's guess. Hogan was a master at hiding his true feelings regarding affairs of the heart.

Baker had confirmed for the French Resistance fighter that Papa Bear and one cub were missing in the wild. A lengthy radio silence had followed. Just as he had decided that the connection had been lost, Tiger keyed her microphone and in a somber voice, asked to be kept apprised of further developments. He had readily agreed, of course, and without another word, she had cut the connection.

Baker shook his head at the memory, his fingertips idly rolling the chewed nub of his pencil back and forth on the small desk. He would be more than happy to make the call telling her that Hogan and Newkirk had been found. It was the call telling her that they had not been found, or that they had been found dead that he dreaded.

Shortly after his conversation with Tiger, Kinch had appeared in the radio room. His visit lasted only long enough for him to check for news and to put their radio through a series of unnecessary checks. Baker had watched without comment, easily recognizing the pressing need to do something. His own thorough inspection of the equipment had been concluded just minutes before Kinch's arrival.

The sound of pounding feet in the tunnel interrupted Baker's revelry. He stood, taking a tense position beside the desk and gazed expectantly at the doorway. Olsen and Jones burst into the room.

"Did --" Olsen gasped for air, one hand going to his ribs. "Have --" Jones frowned at him in concern.

"What he wants to know," Jones told Baker, looking away from Olsen's continuing struggle to catch his breath. "Is if Rumplestilskin's guys found Fear –" he cleared his throat, his expression briefly turning sheepish. "the Colonel and Newkirk?"

Olsen squinted up at Baker, took several gulping breaths, pointed at Jones and weakly nodded, as if saying, 'Yeah. What he said.'

"No," Baker answered shortly. "And since you asked, that must mean that you didn't find them either." He took a quick breath, steeling himself as another thought occurred to him. "Where's the rest of the squad?"

"They're fine," Jones assured him quickly. "Or at least they were when we left. Nothing was wrong. I mean, other than the obvious, of course. They were --"

Olsen suddenly pitched forward, one hand grabbing for the desk's edge.

"Whoa, there!" Jones yelled, pivoting to catch him. Baker gestured to the stool and Jones helped Olsen to sit. Baker stood by, hands tucked behind his back, mentally kicking himself for allowing Olsen out before he was fully recovered. Olsen noticed his tight expression and sighed.

"I just got a little winded, Baker. I'm fine and dandy now. See?" He stood up, throwing his arms wide, and promptly collapsed. Jones was there to catch him again and with a single shake of his head, lowered him onto the chair.

"Yup," Jones said, directing a smirk at Olsen. "Just dandy."

"Fill me in, and then Jones will help you back to bed." Baker withstood Olsen's glare without the slightest trouble.

Olsen looked up at Jones, who made a 'be my guest' motion with his hand.

"One of you start talking," Baker snapped, worry and lack of sleep bringing him to the end of his emotional tether. He waited impatiently while Olsen gathered his thoughts.

"Well, you already know we found LeBeau. After that, we went on searching. Then a patrol came along, which livened things up a little. Maddux is tailing them, just in case they find the colonel and Newkirk before we do. Then Benson decided Jonesie should bring me back and here we are." His voice softened with chagrin. "We would have made it back sooner if I hadn't slowed us down so much."He frowned suddenly, fingers tightening upon his knees. "How's LeBeau?"

"Sick," Baker answered succinctly.

Jones shifted his weight to stand at parade rest. "The others are probably still searching."

"Or they've found the colonel and Newkirk and they're on their way back." Olsen's expression was painfully hopeful.

"Or the colonel and Newkirk have been captured or they're dead," Baker countered with a bitter twist of his mouth. "Or maybe the squad's been captured, or—"

"Dang," Jones snapped, eyebrows raised. "You're just a big ol' ray of sunshine, aren't you, Baker?"

Baker's retort died on his lips. He sighed, rubbed his jaw. "Sorry. You're right."

"Huh," Jones grunted. "Don't hear that very often." At Baker's arched look, he added, shrugging, "That I'm right."

Baker gave him a level stare, then gestured to Olsen, who looked in danger of toppling off the stool. "Make sure he gets back to bed." Hetook a step forward, clapped a hand upon Jones' shoulder. "I'm glad you both made it back okay."

Jones, clearly stunned by Baker's words and friendly gesture, openly gaped at him. Olsen took inJones' expression, chuckled, and tapped him on theforearm with a loosely curled fist.

"Watch it, Jonesie. There are spiders down here that can spin a web faster than you can say 'spit'."

Jones' eyes rolled toward the ceiling and his mouth snapped shut.

Using the desk and Jones' arm as support, Olsen levered himself off the stool. He turned to Baker, his tone completely serious now.

"Don't give up on them, Baker. Not any of them."

"I won't," Baker returned gruffly. He indicated the doorway with a lift of his chin. "Report to Kinch, then get to bed before you fall on your face."

"Probably wouldn't do any harm if he did," Jones rumbled, nonchalantly reaching out with one hand to brace Olsen's listing body. "All the beauty sleep in the world wouldn't help that kisser." He met Olsen's expression of outrage with a serene smile, twirled him around and gave him a push toward the door.

"Jealous!" Olsen hissed over his shoulder at Jones, then faced forward again, but not in time to avoid running into the door jamb. He bounced off it, directly into Jones' waiting arms. The big man responded with an exaggerated sigh, patiently righted Olsen again, and guided him safely out of the room. Baker started to turn away, only to pause as Olsen popped his head back around the door jamb.

"Baker?"

Baker gave him a tight grin. "Believe me, Olsen. The whole camp will know the second after I do."

Jones' hand appeared from beyond the doorway, latched onto Olsen's collar and yanked him out of sight. Baker listened to their quiet bickering fade as they moved up the tunnel.

Bemused, he sat down again and regarded the silent radio. Moments later, he was deep into another inspection of the equipment.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"They should have been here by now."

Newkirk limped to the center of the small glade and glanced overhead. Soft, early morning sunlight dappled the trees and all through the woods birds merrily greeted the new day. The air was slightly warmer, but not enough to make a difference.

Hogan had made it through the night, but was still unconscious and pasty white, his breathing slow and shallow. He lay on his good side in a pool of sunlight, on a thick bed of evergreen boughs that Newkirk had gathered. The sharp fragrance of crushed needles filled the glade.

Keeping Hogan within his peripheral vision, Newkirk slowly eased his arms over his head, trying to loosen muscles that had stiffened from the cold and prolonged inactivity. Carefully, he flexed his shoulders and neck, his face twisting in pain as strained muscles pulled and burned. After a few minutes of self-torture, he gave up with a sigh. He was as limber as he was going to get. He turned back to Hogan, still hardly able to believe that his CO had beaten the odds and lived.

"God bless that stubborn spirit," Newkirk murmured, coming to rest before his CO. He went to one knee, biting his lip to stifle a moan. Despite his stretching, some movements were still painful. He coughed, driving away a tickle at the back of his throat, then lightly laid his hand upon the cool skin of Hogan's face. There was no response to the touch, not even a twitch of an eyelash.

"Got to leave you for just a bit, Colonel Hogan. Promise me –" he paused, lowering his head as his voice cracked. "Promise me you'll keep on fighting. I'll be back quicker than quick. You won't even know I'm gone, sir."

Forcing himself not to look back, Newkirk got to his feet and took off as fast as his injuries allowed.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Hardest thing I've ever done in my life, leaving him lying there all alone and vulnerable like that."

"I did it because I had to, Katie. Sometimes hard choices have to be made no matter how much you don't want to make them."

"Ah, but I didn't know that at the time, Teddy. By that point, Ibelieved that something had happenedto keep our mates from coming. All I knew for sure was that my colonel needed help. So I got off my ar—my rear end and went to get it."

_To be continued. Thank you for reading!_


	14. Chapter 13

_As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner, who makes time to beta for me despite her own packed schedule. _

**Chapter Thirteen**

Benson spun, sent a fist whistling toward a tree. At the very last moment, common sense kicked in and he pulled the punch. A broken hand would only add to their problem. Nerves sparking from frustration, he lowered his white-knuckled fist and closed his eyes.

They had lost the trail.

It had been easy to follow in the scuffed leaf litter, soft ground and patches of drying mud. Until the tandem trail of boot prints passed into a stretch of rocky ground interspersed with brush, thick trees, sticks and logs. The tracks had grown increasingly sketchy, then finally faded out completely. They had been searching for several minutes and still had not found it again.

"We're not thinking," Benson whispered, resting his weight on one hip. He ignored the fatigue burning in his legs, just as he had been ignoring the hollow feeling in his stomach. His last meal had been moldy bread and stale crackers, gulped down between laundry detail and a trip to pick up medical supplies from the camp clinic.

Tivoli came alongside him, his gaze still roving over the ground. "What'd they do?" he grumbled, rubbing his forehead. "Take wings and fly away?"

A twig snapped behind them. In one swift, silent movement, they spun and crouched, pulling their weapons and training them in that direction. Seconds passed. Then they saw a flicker of movement between the trees and heard more twigs snapping. Benson tried picturing the size of whatever was moving about by the noise it was making. It was hard to do. The sounds were not very loud, leading him to believe that only small twigs were being broken. The same noise would likely be produced regardless of size and weight.

Tivoli flicked a look of impatience in his direction. Benson could tell the big Italian was ready to take on anything, was poised to do just that.

"Wait," Benson mouthed, laying a cautionary hand upon Tivoli's arm.

The rustling and snapping stopped, then started up again, growing louder. Whatever it was had changed direction, was now heading directly toward them. Some of the taller bushes swayed, disturbed by its passage. Benson's jaw tightened. This was no fox. Tivoli quivered, raised his gun with obvious intent. Benson squeezed his arm – hard - demanding the Italian's obedience.

At that moment, the source of the noise slowly walked out of a copse of trees and into a golden pool of sunlight.

Nostrils twitching, large ears swiveling back and forth, the deer paused, instinctively sensing danger. Its head bobbed as it tested the air, one hoof stamping the ground, displaying its fear.

Benson smiled. The young doe was a beauty, her eyes and tawny coat gleaming with health.

Tivoli relaxed, gave a chuff of laughter. The doe's ears snapped forward, her liquid, black eyes zeroing in on their location. With a whistling snort and final stamp of her hoof, she bounded back into the trees.

Benson slowly rose. "False alarm."

"I'll say," Tivoli chuckled, tucking his gun away.

"Keep it down," Benson reminded him. "There might still be patrols out here."

"Now?" Tivoli threw a pointed glance at the brilliant, blue sky peeking through the branches over their heads.

"Better safe than sorry."

Tivoli shrugged, then rolled his shoulders and arched his neck. "What now? The trail's gone. They could be anywhere."

Benson holstered his gun. "We know they made it out of the river."

"Yeah. Two sets coming out of the river in two different places. They met up and headed upstream."

"And one of them is hurt," Benson added, his gut twisting as he remembered finding the bloodstained grass.

"They both are." Tivoli's voice belied his own unease. "You've seen that river. It's full of rocks and trees. They're hurt."

Benson gazed off into the distance. "Hurt, wet and cold." He shook himself, turned his gaze to Tivoli. His whisper held firm belief. "They'd go for one of the hidey-holes."

Tivoli's black brows knitted together. "One of the what?"

"The emergency stations. The places where we laid in supplies for times like these." The look of uncertainty on Tivoli's face caught his attention. "What's the matter?"

"What if the colonel and Newkirk didn't make those tracks?"

Benson blinked at him. "What are the odds that another two men would fall into the river last night near this same area?"

"Pretty high?" A grin played at Tivoli's full lips.

"Too high for even Newkirk's taste. We're wasting time trying to find their trail. Let's head to the nearest hidey-hole." Benson glanced around, then chose a direction and pointed. "There. The closest one is that way."

"You're sure about this? We could miss them in between."

"It's what I would do."

Tivoli nodded. "Let's go."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"If I'd have known how close ol' Benson and Tivoli were to finding us, I would have kept myself parked right there with the guv'nor and not gone to the hidey-hole. Of course, things might have turned out much differently if I had."

"The hidey-holes weren't actually holes in the ground, Katie. That's just what we called our safe places. Think it was Andrew who coined them that."

"The hidey-hole I went for that day was in an abandoned cabin. Best I can describe it, Teddy, is that it looked like that old potting shed I used to have out back of the house, 'cept bigger. Oh, bigger, Benjamin. Much more so. No, I don't know what happened to the people who lived there, little mate. Maybe they moved on to a better place. That's what I like to believe, anyway. Other things – not such nice things – often made people move back in that awful time. War did that, you see. Uprooted families; sometimes tore them completely apart. How? Well . . . how about we leave that for another time, eh? It's getting late and this tale needs to be finished."

"Now, then. We were talking about the hidey-hole, weren't we? All of the glass in the four windows was gone and – What, Benjamin? No, I don't think they got broken out with cricket balls like what happened at your house. Yes, all that missing glass made that cabin quite breezy."

"Where was I again? Oh, yes. No windows . . . and there was no door, either. None at all, Katie. Can't rightly say what happened to it. Right, Benjamin. Really, really breezy. A fireplace? There was one, but the chimney had half fallen down and it was . . . Here, now. Are you lot wanting to hear the rest of this tale or another about home furnishing and such?"

"As I was saying – some time ago, so it feels like from here – our hidey-hole was in this abandoned cabin. Yes, Benjamin. The very, very . . . very breezy cabin."

"You look fit to bust, Teddy. Have you figured out where we had the hidey-hole? Oh, you're close, but no cigar. Want another go at it? Eh? Oh. Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. You just go right on thinking. We'll give you a few, won't we, Katie and Benjamin?"

"Teddy? You done, mate? We're about to turn another year older, here."

"No, it wasn't under the bed. There was no bed, for one. Not up the fireplace, either. Soot is really bad on the sinuses. Ever meet a chimney sweep that didn't have allergies and a plugged up beezer? Too right. Nope, not under the floor either, but you're getting warmer. Ready to pack it in?"

"Some friends of ours built a false wall in the back of the cabin, along with a hidden door to get in and out of it. That was your next guess, eh? Katie, did that very un-lady-like sound come from you? Don't be doing that around your mum, poppet. Take it from me, she'll have you in the corner so fast your curls will go straight from the spinning."

"How big was the hidey? Well, I'd say between the false wall and the real wall, we had a nice, three-foot wide space to hunker down in. That's about as wide as you are tall, little mate."

"It wasn't a room at the Savoy, mind you, but it was big enough to do the job. We could stay in there without awful much fear of being found, should any unfriendlies come looking around. Most of the Jerries gave the cabin just a quick search, not taking time for more than that. See, that's what made the cabin such a good hidey. No one ever noticed that the cabin's inside measured smaller than the outside. It was all right clever. But then, we were a clever bunch. Had to be."

"I was counting on nipping into the hidey that day, grabbing up some blankets, matches, some tins of crackers, and a gun and some ammunition, and getting right back to Colonel Hogan. That was my plan, anyway. But luck is a fickle wench and it seemed she'd decided to up and leave me again."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Shock rooted Newkirk in place.

One of the towering old trees bordering the back of the cabin had been struck midpoint by lightening. The strike had sent the tree's top and a large portion of its upper trunk crashing down on the cabin at an angle. The entire back wall was crushed and most of the front. Only one front corner remained relatively intact. To Newkirk's dazed eyes, it looked like a rough-hewn, wooden sail. The rest of the cabin was in ruins. Somewhere beneath the jumble of splintered lumber, branches, and wilted leaves, lay the supplies he had pinned all his hopes upon.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Imagine having a candy bar waved under your nose and just as you're getting ready to take a bite – someone jerks it away. Yeah, little mate. It was nasty, like that. I was right put off."

"The blankets, matches, clothing – everything I needed was right there, but still out of reach. That tree had made a right mess of that cabin and looking at it, I knew I'd have to dig and scrape to find our supplies. It wouldn't be an easy job or a quick one. And all the while, Colonel Hogan would be lying in that woods all alone, with nobody to protect him should trouble come along."

"And if things weren't cocked up enough, that fickle Lady Luck went and tossed a spanner at Benson and Tivoli, too."

"Oh, worse than the tree, Benjamin. Much, much worse."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Benson stopped so suddenly that Tivoli came perilously close to bumping into him. Lip curled in irritation, he peered over Benson's shoulder to see the reason for their abrupt stop. His irritation was immediately forgotten.

They had found one of their two missing comrades.

Shouldering Benson aside, Tivoli rushed into the clearing and went straight for Hogan.

"Is he alive?" Benson asked fearfully, crouching by their CO's crumpled body. He watched Tivoli check for a pulse, surprised to see a tremor shake the Italian's hand.

Tivoli's breath whooshed out in a long sigh of relief. "Yeah." He grimaced at Hogan's pale, haggard face. "He looks really bad."

"Wouldn't you?" Benson muttered, holstering his gun so he would have both hands free. He ran them down Hogan's body, feeling for injuries.

Tivoli hooked a finger in the makeshift wrap binding Hogan's arm. "Looks like he might have a broken arm."

Benson slipped his hand inside the wrap, carefully felt the length of Hogan's arm up to his shoulder. "Not that I can tell. Might be his shoulder. Could be dislocated."

"Where the hell is Newkirk?" Tivoli snapped, staring down at Hogan. "Sitting in the cubby hole while the colonel is out here freezing to death?"

Benson fisted a hand in the Italian's jacket, yanked Tivoli forward. "Newkirk wouldn't leave the colonel without good reason. He got him this far, didn't he? He's probably gone to get help." He relaxed his grip, a weak smile flitting across his face. "And it's hidey-hole, not cubby hole, you crazy Italian."

"Sorry," Tivoli muttered, averting his gaze. "I know Newkirk wouldn't --"

"Do not move!"

In the charged silence that followed the command, four Wehrmacht soldiers walked out of the trees at their backs, guns leveled. Tivoli and Benson's eyes locked, a silent message passing between them.

_We're in trouble. _

_**-----------------------------------------------------------**_

_To be continued. _

_Thank you for reading! I'll do my best to update sooner next time._


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner, who makes time to beta for me despite her own packed schedule. _

**Chapter Fourteen**

Baker sat at the end of the common room table; cheek resting upon his crossed arms. Kinch had chased him from the radio set with an order to get some sleep. What Kinch had failed to specify was when he expected Baker to comply with that order.

_You can order a man to his bed_, Baker thought, floating in the netherworld of semi-consciousness. _but you can't make him sleep._

Broughton and Maddux had both returned, tired but bearing news. Maddux had reported the patrol had gotten into their transport and driven away without finding Hogan or Newkirk. Broughton had divulged Benson and Tivoli's plans to search the other side of the river, and his own failure to find their comrades. As long as Hogan and Newkirk were still unaccounted for and as long as Benson and Tivoli were still out looking for them, Baker intended to stay awake. Even if he had to prop his eyelids open with toothpicks to do it.

_Come on, guys. Be okay. All of you. Be okay. We're waiting for you. And Kinch isn't going to let me get away with using this loophole much longer._

Through sleep-heavy eyes, Baker watched O'Malley make another pass through his limited field of vision. Even half-asleep, he noticed the medic looked a little worse each time he went by.

Baker dragged one hand over his face, then laboriously got to his feet and stepped clear of the table.

"O'Malley." Baker made a face. The croak in his voice would have put a frog to shame. Clearing his throat, he called to the medic again. This time, O'Malley heard him and turned from Parker's bedside to see what Baker wanted.

"You need sleep," Baker pointed out.

"Are you talking to me, or to yourself?" O'Malley laid the folded, damp cloth across Parker's brow. Parker weakly smiled his thanks, brought one hand up to hold the cloth in place.

Baker rubbed his hands over his face. "You. I'm talking about you." He let his hands drop and took a deep breath. "Come on, Ben. You're exhausted. Go to bed for awhile."

O'Malley bowed his head, his hands fiddling with another towel. Baker went to him, rested a hand on his shoulder. The heat coming off the medic surprised him. He tugged O'Malley around. A pair of dull, brown eyes lifted to him, then slid away.

"You're sick," Baker said, voice crisp with alarm.

O'Malley's eyes squeezed shut, his head dipping in acknowledgment. Baker's fatigue vanished completely, concern for his friend spurring him into action. He took the towel from O'Malley's unresisting hands, tossed it on the table, and steered him toward an empty bed. Paxton glanced up from talking with Carter, took a look at O'Malley's gaunt face and jumped to his feet. Baker motioned him closer.

"Take care of him."

Paxton nodded and took O'Malley by the arm. The medic jerked at the contact and looked from Paxton to Baker. His voice was soft with weakness.

"No. No, Baker. I've got to be ready when the colonel and Newkirk get back. They're going to need –"

Baker shook his head, gently took O'Malley's other arm. He nodded to Paxton and the two of them helped the medic to sit upon the bunk.

"You just lie down and let us take care of everything," Baker said, making eye contact with Paxton over O'Malley's bowed head. "We'll let you know when the colonel and Newkirk get back."

"Aye," O'Malley murmured, letting Baker and Paxton get him into the bunk and cover him with blankets. "Aye, you do that. They'll be needing me. Been out all night. Sick. They'll be sick." Baker's alarm soared at how quickly the medic's condition was deteriorating. O'Malley suddenly looked up, grabbed Baker's sleeve and held him fast. "Are they back yet?"

"Not yet," Baker replied softly, gently disentangling O'Malley's fingers from his sleeve. "But soon. Benson and Tivoli are probably bringing them through the tunnels as we speak." He tucked O'Malley's hand under the blankets, flashed a smile that felt stiff as cardboard. "Rest, Ben. They'll be here when you wake up."

O'Malley's breath hissed out in a deep sigh and in the next moment, he was asleep. Baker straightened and turned to face Paxton. Without a word passing between them, they moved away from the bunk and to the table. Paxton made several abortive attempts at speech before finally finding the words he wanted.

"You really believe what you said?"

Baker's gaze roamed the room. Graham, Braveheart and Parker appeared sound asleep. LeBeau was finally resting quietly in Olsen's bunk, while Olsen was sitting up on LeBeau's bunk, feet dangling over the side. Carter was feeling better and was perched on the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his legs. Both men wore identical expressions of worry.

"About the colonel and Newkirk getting back soon?"

"Yeah."

Baker sighed, dropped into a seat at the table again. "I want to."

Paxton slowly sat down opposite him. Carter and Olsen shared glances, then both got up and slowly made their way to the table. Baker glanced over at them and frowned. He retrieved several blankets, draped them about their shoulders. Paxton grabbed up the coffee pot and four cups. The four men sat together, silently sipping coffee and praying for their friends' safe return.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Newkirk lay on his belly on a tangle of branches, one arm deep in a hole he had dug in the debris.

He had found a broken crate of supplies on his first try. The problem was, the crate was buried in broken lumber and branches and wedged beneath the biggest, heaviest part of the tree's shattered trunk. He had no idea what the crate had contained, but he hoped it was blankets. A gun and ammunition would be nice, too, food better, and matches even better yet. Whatever he could salvage would be an improvement over what he currently had, which was nothing.

Newkirk braced the toes of his boots against a limb behind him, stretched his body out to its full length and worked his hand between the crate's broken slats. Heartbeat crashing against his ribs, pleading under his breath, he ran his fingertips over what he could reach. He felt the roughness of a woolen blanket at the farthest extent of his reach. Jaw clenched in concentration, sweat and blood running down his face and stinging his eyes, he teased a tiny fold between his first two fingers. Using the same utmost care and exacting precision he would upon a lock, he gently tugged at the fold of material. It slid toward him – then stopped, caught on something. Grimacing in frustration, Newkirk gave the blanket another gentle tug. The material stretched, but would not come free. He tugged again, with the same result. After several more attempts, he reluctantly gave up on the blanket and continued searching the crate's contents.

His fingers dropped lower, brushing over splintered wood and metal. With growing excitement, he swept his hand back, seeking the metal's cool, smooth surface again. Finding it, he closed his eyes and lightly traced its contours, using touch to create a picture in his mind. It was the barrel of one of the guns. He tried coaxing the gun closer, but his fingertips kept slipping off the wet metal.

Cursing, Newkirk scoured sweat and blood out of his eye with his shoulder, slammed his feet against the branch, and shoved his body forward as far as he could. His eyes closed, his teeth bit into his lower lip. His cheek ground against the broken branches and twigs encircling the hole, scoring new scratches in his face. He neither felt the pain nor heard his ragged breaths. His entire focus centered upon getting the gun out of the crate. With it, he had a means of protecting Hogan.

Voices raised in anger echoed through the trees. German voices, barking commands at someone who was either refusing or was unable to respond.

Newkirk's eyes flew open, horror drenching him in ice.

More shouts. A warning.

Newkirk threw himself against the pile of debris, fingers scrabbling for the gun. He let out a muted wail as they bumped against the butt, knocking it out of his reach.

A gunshot cracked in the distance. Birds squawked and flew into the sky. Newkirk rolled to his feet, scrambled over the debris and bolted into the trees.

_**To be continued. **_

_Thank you for reading! _


	16. Chapter 15

_As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner. It would take a whole page to list the reasons why. _

_This chapter is much longer this time. I hope you enjoy it!_

**Chapter Fifteen**

"I thought that I had killed him."

"Ah, now, Katie. Come here, sweet. It's all right. Remember? That's right. Here, Benjamin . . . let Katie use your handkerchief. That's a good lad. Better, Katie? Good."

"Maybe this part of the tale would be better not told. I'll not be having you lot with nightmares because of this. Should have realized when I started this tale it weren't for –"

"Because it gets rough from here on out, Teddy. At least for awhile, anyway. Not all hearts and flowers, this."

"Benjamin . . . Benjamin . . . Benjamin! Hoooo! Don't know that I heard you take a breath there, little mate. Not one. Think you even topped Andrew's record."

"Well, you are young for a tale such as this, little mate. Yes, I know you're – Yes, you've – Well, yes, but –"

"All right. All right. I'll not leave anything out. Got me wrapped right around that little finger, you do. Never thought I'd see the day."

"What, Teddy? Oh. Yes, I did. I thought I'd killed the guv'nor. Not by the actual doing of it. By leaving him behind. Was pretty much the same thing, by my thinking at the time. When I heard that gunshot . . . It 'bout stopped my heart. Too right, it was a horrible feeling, Katie. All I could see in my mind as I ran back to that little glade was the guv'nor lying dead, with some Jerrie standing over him."

"But that wasn't what had happened."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Benson stared at the bullet hole torn into the ground mere inches from his knee - the knee that he was very, very fond of and wanted to keep in working order.

The Hauptmann cocked his gun again, spoke in terse German.

"This is your last warning. Raise your hands and move away from him. Or the next bullets will be in your heads."

Benson was suddenly furious. After all they had been through – it ended like this? He glanced down at Hogan, his determination to protect his CO stronger than ever. At the moment, he had no idea how, except to do something extremely stupid and dangerous - like pulling his gun and taking on all four of the Krauts holding them at gunpoint. By the look in Tivoli's eyes, the Italian was having similar thoughts. Benson gave a mental snort.

_Much as I want to, Tivoli, my mamma didn't raise no suicidal fool._

Movement flickered at the lower edge of his vision. Benson swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Hogan was waking up.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"There they were. Those Jerries had their guns pointed dead-bang at my mates, faces all fierce, ready to shoot. Spot on, Teddy. It didn't look good for the colonel, Benson and Tivoli. Not at all. And there I was, all done in, fair to fainting from running back so fast while trying to stay quiet, imagining the worst, head pounding near to bursting, and no gun. No knife, either. I'd lost it somehow, Katie. Never did figure out where or how."

"Got any guesses on how we got out of it, Teddy? None at all, eh? How 'bout you, Katie? Benjamin?"

"Well . . . hmmm . . . what did happen? Give me a minute. Hmm. Guess I've forgotten. Sorry. Old age finally setting in, affecting my memory. Bound to happen one day."

"Hang about! Here now! Look at that. You've gone and scared the whole lot of pigeons away with all your shouting and hopping about. Good work. Pesky little things were sneaking up on us again."

"Oh, little mate. Don't be looking so sad. I've not really forgotten. Was just ragging you, is all. I'll tell you everything. Just sit back down, all three of you. Ta."

"Now, then. Hold on to your hats and . . . Benjamin? It's a figure of spe ech. You can let go of your cap. That's right. You'll be ever so much more comfortable. Katie? Teddy? You keep sniggering like that, you won't be able to hear."

"I'm being quite serious about this now. This is where it gets rough. Are you sure you want me to tell this part? Let's see nods or shakes all around, then. Look at that. Three heads a bobbin'. You look like a trio of those crazy little bobbin' head animals what you put in the back window. Have you any idea why anyone would want to – All right, all right. Sorry. Got a little off the beaten path again."

"Of course I don't mind if you hold my hand, little mate. Katie, you can have the other one. Sorry, Teddy. I've run out of hands. What's that? Oh, yes. Keep forgetting you're near on to being a worldly young man of ten and don't need any hand holding for the scary parts. Still. Benjamin's offering his other hand if you need it."

"All ready? Let's get on with it, then."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

The Hauptmann motioned with his gun for Benson and Tivoli to stand. Slowly, they put their hands into the air and rose, then moved toward each other, putting themselves between Hogan and the Germans. A thin, contemptuous smile twitched at the Hauptmann's lips.

"Drop your weapons."

The stupidity of the order stunned Benson. He studied the German officer, seeing for the first time how young and nervous he appeared. Benson almost licked his lips, anticipating the chance at getting his hand on his gun again.

"We can't understand a word you're saying," Tivoli shrugged with a hearty, false smile.

The Hauptmann's smile turned colder. In perfect English, he replied, "Drop your weapons."

Benson and Tivoli glanced at each other. Tivoli's gaze held an anticipatory gleam. He pursed his lips.

"Why didn't he just say so in the first place?"

Slowly, they reached for their guns. The soldiers tensed. As if suddenly realizing his error in judgment, the Hauptmann snapped his hand up in a halting gesture.

"Stop! Don't move!"

Benson and Tivoli stopped mid-motion, their hands hovering inches from their guns.

"Drop your hands!"

"Geez," Tivoli snarled loudly. "Make up your mind, why don't you? Drop your weapons, don't move, drop your hands . . ."

The Hauptmann's face reddened. Smiling, Benson goaded the German further. "What did you expect? These guys aren't used to thinking for themselves."

The rest of the squad shifted uneasily, darting glances at the Hauptmann, whose face was growing redder by the second.

"Oh, yeah. That's right. Just a bunch of trained monkeys." Tivoli wagged his head, clucked his tongue in apparent pity.

"I heard," Benson continued, watching carefully, bracing for action. "That --"

"Enough!" The Hauptmann yelled, taking a step forward.

At that moment, Newkirk darted out from behind a tree, his arm snapping forward, hurling a softball-sized rock. It struck the soldier on Benson's far left squarely in the temple. He tumbled to the ground, eyes already glazing in death. Startled, the Hauptmann's attention – and his gun – swung toward Newkirk. It was the opening Benson and Tivoli had been waiting for. Benson dove to his left as Tivoli leaped forward. Newkirk dropped flat to the ground, making himself as small a target as possible.

Tivoli chopped down on the Hauptmann's wrist with the edge of his hand. The German's fingers instantly went numb, his gun falling to the ground. Before he could recover, Tivoli grabbed him by the wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. Taken by surprise, the three soldiers hesitated a moment too long. Using the Hauptmann as a shield, Tivoli drew his own gun and fired, taking one of the three down with a shot to the head.

Benson rolled and came up firing. Another soldier collapsed, shot cleanly between the eyes. Desperate, the remaining soldier whirled and fired upon Benson. His shot went wild. Tivoli's did not. It struck the soldier in the chest and he went down in a boneless heap. Tivoli shoved the Hauptmann away. The German stumbled, caught his balance and straightened. His gaze went to his gun, lying a few feet away, then touched upon each of his men, now lying dead. He turned in place, his eyes passing over Benson, then slowly lifting to Tivoli's face.

"Sorry," Tivoli told him, regret softening his voice. Resignation flashed across the Hauptmann's calm, white features. He looked Tivoli directly in the eyes, his chin lifting proudly. "Sorry," Tivoli repeated. "But it's us or you." He fired, turning away even as the officer dropped, lifeless, to the ground. Tivoli's breath left him in a shuddering sigh. Benson climbed to his feet and went to him. He gripped Tivoli's shoulder, then tipped his head toward the fallen Germans. Tivoli nodded. Together, they moved to check them.

Newkirk slowly raised his head. Seeing the Germans were down and the shooting over, he got to his feet and staggered to Hogan's side, completely spent. The officer slowly turned his head and blinked up at him with unfocused eyes. Newkirk sank to his knees, overjoyed that his CO was alive and at least partially conscious.

"It's all right, Colonel," Newkirk said in a breathless voice, head hanging in relief and weariness. "Everything's going to be okay now."

A shot rang out. Tivoli grunted, stumbled and collapsed face down in the grass. Benson threw himself at Newkirk and Hogan, flattening Newkirk over their CO and covering both men with his own body.

Another shot smacked into the ground beside Benson's head, spraying dirt into his eyes. A single thought flashed through his mind.

_We're dead._

More shots cracked through the air in quick succession. Benson flinched, expecting pain, surprised when it did not come. Then, abruptly, the fusillade ended. Seconds stretched out in silence. He stayed draped over Hogan and Newkirk, muscles trembling and heart pounding. Cautiously, he pried open one stinging eye and slowly pushed up on his hands, still partially covering Newkirk and Hogan. Two more Wehrmacht soldiers lay dead in the grass a short distance away, limbs askew and faces slack.

Newkirk moaned and weakly pushed at Benson's forearm.

"Don't . . . get . . . .me wrong," Newkirk wheezed. "Grateful and . . . and all . . . but it . . . would be ever . . . so . . . nice . . . if I could . . . BREATHE!"

Benson jumped clear of Newkirk and Hogan just as four men walked out of the trees and into the glade. Blinking furiously in an effort to clear his vision, Benson recognized Rumplestiltskin and stayed his instinctive grab for his gun. Newkirk slowly sat up at his feet, gently started checking Hogan for new injuries.

"How is he?" Benson asked, wiping at his tearing eyes. "Is he okay?"

"Well, having us land on top of him probably didn't feel too bloody good!" Newkirk anxiously examined Hogan's ribs. As far as he could tell, none had been damaged. Their CO appeared groggy, his eyes only half-open and wandering. They were still the prettiest sight Newkirk had seen since their nightmare had begun. He smiled down at Hogan, patted the officer's good shoulder. The material of Hogan's jacket was warm beneath his hand. Newkirk glanced up at the brilliant sun and his smile widened. At least one thing had gone according to his plan.

Rumplestiltskin crouched beside Newkirk, his gaze running worriedly over Hogan. "Was he hit?"

"No," Newkirk sighed, thinking it was about the only thing that had not happened to Hogan.

"But you are," Rumplestiltskin countered softly, eyeing the cut on Newkirk's head.

"Never mind about me. It's the guv'nor we need to be worrying about."

Rumplestiltskin nodded. "We apologize for not coming sooner. But we have been playing 'hide and seek' with this patrol all night." Rumplestiltskin scanned the dead men, the lines in his wrinkled face deepening. "The loss of an entire squad . . . " he murmured. "Is sure to bring more trouble to our door."

Benson slowly exhaled. "Thanks for the save. We—" his eyes flew wide and he whirled around, heartbeat leaping again. "Tivoli!" Narrow ribbons of scarlet were spreading from a bloody patch high on the Italian's back. Dreading what he would find, Benson went to the still body. At his touch, Tivoli lurched into a sitting position, spitting a virulent stream of Italian.

Benson sat back on his heels, his relief coming out in a smirk. "I guess your mouth wasn't hurt."

Tivoli's slitted black eyes cut toward him. Benson lost the smirk. Instinctively understanding the Italian would not appreciate having a fuss made over him, Benson arched his eyebrows, silently asking if Tivoli could make it. Breath hissing between his teeth, Tivoli blinked, then gave a single bob of his head. Benson reached out and carefully supported the Italian when he started to sag.

"Colonel Hogan?" Tivoli panted, cradling his limp arm and curling forward over his legs. Benson held onto him, then slowly pushed him upright again.

"No bullet holes. I think he'll be all right once we get him warmed up. Newkirk, too. You, on the other hand, have a bullet in you."

Tivoli looked up at him from beneath a furrowed brow, a trace of humor creeping into his tone. "Gosh, I hadn't noticed. Thanks for bringing it to my attention."

Benson sighed. "Would you stop popping off and hold still? We've got to get that bleeding stopped."

Tivoli pushed at him with his good arm. "Get out of here. Ugliest nurse I've ever seen. Go practice on Newkirk and the colonel."

Rumplestiltskin knelt beside Tivoli, intent upon examining the bullet wound. Tivoli's head jerked toward him, eyes hard with suspicion. Benson reached over and lightly swatted the Italian in the back of the head, signaling him to behave. Jaw working, body rigid with pain, Tivoli relented. He made no sound, not even when Rumplestiltskin gently probed around the wound.

Benson's gaze kept alternating between Tivoli and Newkirk and Hogan. The Englishman had managed to get Hogan into a sitting position and was keeping up a stream of chatter worthy of Andrew Carter. To Benson's alarm, the words seemed to fall upon deaf ears. Hogan looked dazed and disoriented and had neither spoken nor tried to stand.

"We can't stay here much longer. Someone might have heard that gunfire," Benson rasped. Rumplestiltskin's men nodded their agreement, their guns drawn, their eyes constantly sweeping the surrounding trees for more trouble.

Benson glanced down at Rumplestiltskin, watched the elderly man ball up a large cloth he had pulled from his shirt pocket. "Are you about done?"

"Yes." Rumplestiltskin shoved the wad of cloth under Tivoli's jacket and pressed it against the wound. Tivoli's head bowed over his knees, face contorting in discomfort. Rumplestiltskin gripped the top of the Italian's shoulder, leaned close and whispered into his ear. The Italian let out a quiet snort of laughter. Rumplestiltskin clapped him on the shoulder, climbed to his feet and turned to Benson. The Resistance agent hesitated, his expression turning slightly embarrassed.

"I am sorry to ask this under such circumstances, but –"

"Got them right here," Newkirk called out in a raspy voice, motioning Rumplestiltskin over. "'S'cuse me, Guv'nor." Newkirk reached inside Hogan's trouser pocket, pulled out the leather pouch and slapped it onto Rumplestiltskin's palm. "Here are the bleeding papers and good bloody riddance to them! Now, can we bloody well get out of here and go home?"

"I second that," Tivoli muttered.

Newkirk coughed harshly into his fist. Benson and Tivoli stared at him, wide-eyed with concern.

"Uh-oh," Tivoli breathed, stretching his good hand out. Benson took it without looking and pulled him to his feet. Newkirk's coughing continued, sounding deeper with each cough. Benson walked over and crouched at his side. Newkirk held up a finger, took a shuddering breath and shook his head.

"Don't – don't go mother henning me," he gasped, giving his head another shake. He cleared his throat, finger still upraised. "Just get us out of here."

Benson nodded. "Sure thing." He glanced down at Hogan, then looked Newkirk in the eye. "You did good, Newkirk. Real good."

"We're bloody well wasting time." Newkirk suddenly gasped, remembering the third member of their ill-fated team. "Louis! Is he all right?"

Rumplestiltskin moved closer. "We need to go. Herr Schnitzer is waiting to take you back to camp."

"And how are we going to get to him?" Benson indicated Hogan, Newkirk and Tivoli with a tip of his head.

"My men will assist them."

"I can make it on my own," Tivoli snapped, glaring at Rumplestiltskin's men.

"Tivoli," Benson warned in a low voice. "Don't give the nice men any trouble. They just saved your Italian butt."

The hostility faded from Tivoli's face. His eyes flickered toward Rumplestiltskin's men, his head dipping in a nod of thanks.

Another cough burst from Newkirk's chest. He stood, waving off Benson's offer of assistance. "Would someone tell me if Louis made it back to camp?"

Benson nodded. "We found him. Lyons took him back."

Newkirk's shoulders sagged in relief, then drew tight with tension again. Hogan had slumped onto his side, his eyes closed. "Colonel?" He called several times, but the officer did not wake. Newkirk glanced over at the others and went still, his eyes narrowing. He extended his hand toward them, waggled his fingers in a 'give me' gesture.

"Off with them."

"Huh?" Benson grunted, puzzled by the demand.

"Your jackets!" Newkirk waggled his fingers with more urgency, then snapped them repeatedly. "Give 'em over! They're warm and that's what the guv'nor needs more than anything!"

Benson uttered a curse, kicking himself for ignoring Hogan's condition. Hurriedly, he stripped off his jacket and tossed it to Newkirk, while Rumplestiltskin had his men do the same. Newkirk layered the jackets around Hogan, enveloping him in warmth. Benson saw Tivoli struggling to get out of his own jacket and rushed to his side.

"Not you." Benson tugged the Italian's jacket closed around him. "You need to stay warm, too."

Tivoli jammed his good hand against Benson's sternum and tried shoving him away. "The colonel needs it more than I do!"

"You ever heard of shock, bright boy?" Benson huffed, easily counter-balancing against the shove. "Leave it on. That's an order."

Anger darkened Tivoli's face. He opened his mouth, sucked in a breath to argue. Benson pointed at him.

"Don't argue with me, Tivoli, or so help me . . ." Benson paused, grappling for something to defuse the Italian's volatile temper. ". . . I'll make you sit through an hour of me singing when we get back to camp."

Tivoli stared at him, eyes wide as saucers. A smile slowly crept over his face. "Geez, Benson," he weakly chuckled. "I've heard you sing. Even the Krauts aren't that cruel."

"Stop all the nattering about!" Newkirk's voice was rough with exhaustion and deepening congestion. He paused, eyeing the jackets cocooning Hogan. "Got to keep 'em on him, somehow." He glanced down at himself, considered his empty belt loops, then looked over at Benson. "I need some belts or twine. Something to keep the jackets from falling off."

Benson grinned. "I've got something just as good." He dashed into the trees, emerging a few minutes later with lengths of a plant clutched in his hands. The leaves had been stripped off, exposing a thick, ropy vine.

Tivoli's eyebrows hit his hairline. "Whoa! That's not poison ivy, is it?"

"Very funny," Benson growled. He held out the vines to Newkirk. "I don't know what you call it, exactly. But it's like a grapevine. It's flexible enough to tie and tough enough to hold up."

Newkirk accepted the vines and a few minutes later, the jackets were secured.

Rumplestiltskin signaled the biggest of his men, who bent down and lifted the officer into a sitting position.

"Gently, mate," Newkirk warned. "There's something wrong with his shoulder."

The agent nodded his understanding. Under Benson, Newkirk and Tivoli's watchful gaze, he carefully put Hogan over his shoulder and started off. The rest of the group followed, with Benson sticking close to Tivoli and Newkirk.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"No, there weren't any more bad surprises, Teddy. No more Jerries snuck up on us and no trees fell over on us, either. Lady Luck had thrown all her spanners – at least that day."

"Our trip to Schnitzer's truck wasn't without happenings, though. Tivoli was hurtin' worse than he was letting on. He kept up a good front – right up until the time he fell over. Benson had known it was coming. He picked ol' Tivoli off the ground without a fare-thee-well or by-your-leave, braced him up and off we went again. Too right, Benjamin. Just like a friend would do."

"I wasn't feeling so awful bad, little mate. Everyone gets tired, especially after a night and morning like what I'd had. Whew! Get tired just thinking of it again. What? Oh. Well. Yes, I did have a bit of cough. But that was to be expected after my swim and the cold, and being tired and all. Stop giving me that look, Teddy. That one. Your mum's got that one down to perfection. Ah, now. See? Now you have Katie doing it. Keep trying, Benjamin. You've not quite got it yet. That's the same face you pulled after you bit into that lemon, thinking it was an unripe orange."

"What's that, poppet? The colonel? Well, he still wasn't doing very well, even wrapped up in those warm jackets. I don't mind telling you, he had me worried, even then. But I felt much better about things when I saw who was waiting for us at the truck with Schnitzer."

_**To be continued. **_

_Thank you for reading!_


	17. Chapter Sixteen

_As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner. It would take a whole page to list the reasons why. _

**Chapter Sixteen**

"Praises be," Newkirk murmured, suddenly finding the energy to walk faster.

Doktor Kurt Metzger saw them coming and stood up in the back of Schnitzer's truck. His eyes briefly locked on Newkirk, passed to Tivoli and paused, then went to Hogan. Making eye contact with Rumplestiltskin's agent, Kurt pointed down at a thick pallet of blankets laid out on the truck's bed.

"Put him here."

The agent eased Hogan off his shoulder and onto the pallet, then backed out of the way. Eyebrows raised, Kurt studied the jackets and vines swaddling Hogan. Leaving the jackets as they were, he lifted Hogan's eyelids, checking his pupil reaction.

"Has he been awake?"

"Briefly." Benson steered Tivoli to the truck, helped him to sit on the tailgate. The Italian grimaced, his head bowing in pain. He swayed, clutching his arm, a low moan slipping past his clenched teeth. At the sound, Kurt looked up, his eyes narrowing as they fell upon the bloody hole in Tivoli's back.

"How long has it been since he was shot?"

Benson quickly estimated the time it had taken them to walk to the truck. "About thirty minutes give or take." He rested a hand on Tivoli's good shoulder. "This, by the way, Doc, is Tivoli." He briefly tightened his grip. "Tiv, this is Doktor Kurt Metzger."

The Italian raised his good hand in the air, weakly offered a wave of greeting. Kurt returned it with a nod, then looked over at Newkirk, who was standing off to one side. "What happened to your head?"

Newkirk shrugged. "I fell."

Kurt's gaze sharpened. "Did you lose consciousness?"

"Yes. Don't know for how long."

"Get them in blankets," Kurt ordered, checking Hogan's pulse. Benson grabbed a blanket from the pile nearby, wrapped it around Newkirk, then did the same for Tivoli.

Newkirk coughed, receiving another sharp look from Kurt. "Colonel Hogan's going to be all right - right, Doc?"

"Was he talking? Lucid?"

"No and no." Newkirk frowned. "Not since late last night, anyway." He started, leaned forward. "Almost forgot! His shoulder is messed up. Must have happened when—"

"Which one?" Kurt snapped. Newkirk blinked, thought hard.

"Left. The left one. He couldn't use that arm."

Kurt suddenly blanched. "He's not been shot, too?"

"No!" Newkirk rushed to assure him. "I think he hurt it when we fell into that bloody river."

Tivoli turned his head toward Benson, lost his balance and almost fell off the tailgate. Benson caught him with an arm across the chest, leaned forward to hear what Tivoli was trying to tell him. Pain had softened the Italian's voice to a mere whisper.

"He can't feel his arm, Doc. He said it's gone completely numb."

Kurt left Hogan, crouched on his heels behind Tivoli and pulled the blanket off the Italian's shoulders. He briefly studied where the bullet had entered Tivoli's back, then carefully eased the Italian's jacket down and lifted the blood-soaked cloth. Blood trickled from the wound. Kurt quickly replaced the cloth.

"Tell me when you feel me touching you." Kurt reached around Tivoli, lightly touched the back the Italian's hand. Tivoli shook his head, his gaze fixed upon Kurt's fingers. Benson and Newkirk shared worried glances, neither saying a thing in the stifling silence.

Kurt skimmed his fingers over Tivoli's inner arm and received another negative response. He moved further up the arm, received another 'no'. His hand passed over Tivoli's shoulder blade, hesitated, then came to rest beside the wound. Tivoli glanced back at him, checking to see if Kurt was doing anything. Kurt gave him a tight smile, then made eye contact with Newkirk.

"Get in." He pointed to another pallet of blankets, placed along one wall of the truck. "Sit or lie down, but stay on those blankets." His tone was urgent, his manner even more abrupt.

With Rumplestiltskin and Benson's help, Newkirk climbed into the back of the truck. After settling on the pallet, back against the wall, his gaze fell to Hogan's face.

"I'll be ever so glad to see him back at camp."

"We're not going to Stalag 13," Kurt stated firmly, fingers pressed to the pulse in Hogan's neck. He leaned to one side, giving Benson and Tivoli room to pass into the back of the truck and sit down.

Newkirk turned toward him, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. "Not to—"

"We're going to my parents' farm." Kurt nodded to Schnitzer, who had been watching and listening from beside the open doors. The elderly German nodded back, unfolded another blanket and tossed it over Hogan. Kurt smiled, understanding the desire to do more.

Newkirk stood, steadying himself with a hand to the wall. His other gripped his blanket closed at chest-level. "Why not! The guv'nor --"

Benson stood. "Sit down, Newkirk." His tone was gentle, but brooked no argument. Newkirk glared at him and sat back down. Benson returned to his place beside Tivoli, but remained standing. Kurt's fingers were still upon Hogan's pulse, but he was studying Tivoli with evident worry. Benson frowned. Tivoli's eyes were closed again, his breathing shallow and rapid.

"We're going there because of Tivoli?" Benson asked.

"Because of both of them." Kurt glanced down at Hogan, then back to Tivoli. "The best place for the colonel is in front of my parents' fireplace. A blazing fire will warm him the fastest. And that bullet needs to come out as soon as possible. I am fairly certain it is pressing against a nerve –"

"That's why he can't feel his arm?" Benson sat down beside Tivoli again. His shoulder coincidentally came to rest against Tivoli's, providing support - both physical and emotional.

Kurt nodded. He met Benson's gaze with direct frankness. "The longer the bullet remains there, the more likely he will lose all function in the arm." He gaze slid to Newkirk, who was staring at Tivoli with obvious sympathy. "At the farm, I will have cleaner conditions, an abundance of hot water and better light."

"Right then," Newkirk sighed.

Rumplestiltskin appeared beside Schnitzer at the tailgate. "Good luck to you all. I will see that the papers are delivered to the courier."

Newkirk managed a smile. "Thanks for not giving up on us."

"And for saving our hides," Benson chipped in. Beside him, Tivoli's head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

Rumplestiltskin gave them a jaunty wave and was gone.

Kurt called Benson's attention to the lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Once it had been lit, Kurt and Schnitzer shared a few words, spoken too low for anyone else to hear. The elderly man closed the truck's back doors. Moments later, they heard the engine start and the truck started moving.

Newkirk leaned his head back, closed his eyes and offered up another prayer. The nightmare was not over yet.

_**To be continued. **_

_Thank you for reading!_


	18. Chapter Seventeen

_As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner. It would take a whole page to list the reasons why. _

_Sorry for the delay!_

**Chapter Seventeen**

"That ride to the farm felt like the longest of my life. It was crowded in the back of that truck, all of us stuffed in every which way. No, Katie. The guv'nor never really woke up during it, not even when the doc pinched him a couple of times. I see that look in your eye, Benjamin. Just get that thought right out of your noggin, little mate. There'll be no pinching going on around here. No, Benjamin, not even one."

"Good question, Teddy. A very good one. The guv'nor did wake up during Benson and Tivoli's sad encounter with that patrol. But I can't tell you why right now. No and no. That'd be jumping ahead in the tale and doing that would take all the air right out of it."

"Hop right up, little mate. What's your question? Kurt was a good friend. Still is. He'd helped us out many a time, just like this one. Why, he saved Colonel Hogan's life the very first time they met. Went on to have a hand in saving just about all of us at one point or another. And there was a time we had to save him, too. But that's another tale. We need to finish this one up."

"We had some time during that trip to do a little talking.Benson asked thedoc how he happened to be waiting for us in that lorry, pretty as you please. Seems the doc had heard by way of the Underground grapevine that we were missing. He put out a word or two of his own, made it known that he wanted to be kept in the know about the search and if we were found. Word got back to him that we'd taken a tumble into the river. Once he heard that, he hitched a ride with Schnitzer and joined up with ol' Rumple's search party."

"And luckily for Tivoli, it was a good thing that he did."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"I can make it."

"Of course you can," Benson growled under his breath, managing not to roll his eyes at Tivoli's stubbornness. He nevertheless kept his hand upon Tivoli's side, steadying the Italian while he stood at the back of the truck. Tivoli hesitated, eyes darting from the ground to either side of the truck, to Benson and back to the ground, clearly considering the best way to get down. Benson sensed the exact moment Tivoli made his choice.

"Don't --!" Benson snapped, somehow divining Tivoli's intent. The warning came too late. The Italian jumped out of the truck. His feet hit the ground, his swarthy complexion went ghostly white, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he toppled like a felled tree into Benson's arms.

"Stubborn, impulsive, thick-headed, impatient, crazy son of a . . . " Benson ranted down at his armload of unconscious Italian. He went suddenly silent. From this angle, he had a good view of Tivoli's back. The material over the wound was saturated with blood, the stain noticeably larger despite Kurt's efforts to staunch the bleeding. "Damn it, Tivoli," he muttered.

Kurt trotted out of the house and down the steps to them. He pulled back Tivoli's jacket and took a quick glance under the bloody wad of cloth, his expression telling Benson absolutely nothing.

"What's the hold up . . . oh." Newkirk wobbled out of the house, one hand clutching a cloth to the bump on his forehead.

"Get back to the couch!" Kurt ordered without looking at him. "Inside, now," he told Benson, bending down to take Tivoli's feet. Benson shifted Tivoli's dead weight, nodded to let Kurt know he was ready to move. They carried the Italian up the steps and past Newkirk, who had remained to hold the door for them.

"Where?" Benson grunted, walking backward through the front room. He glanced over his shoulder, checking for obstacles in his path.

"Bedroom." Kurt pointed to an open doorway with a stab of his chin. Benson adjusted his direction accordingly. Newkirk glanced at Hogan, wrapped in blankets and lying on the floor before the fireplace, his head in Romie's lap. She sat with her back against the couch, her head bent over him. Josef looked up from the stoking the fire long enough to nod to Newkirk, signaling that all was well. Satisfied, Newkirk dropped the cloth on the table, straggled into the bedroom to see if he could help Kurt and Benson.

Tivoli had already been stripped of his shirt and jacket. Helay belly-down on the bed, his head cradled on his arms and turned to one side. Newkirk winced, struck by the Italian's pallor. Kurt stood at the side of the bed, busily pulling medical supplies from his black bag. Benson pivoted in place at the foot of the bed, Tivoli's bloody jacket and shirt clutched in his hands. He glanced around the room, clearly at a loss about what to do with them.

"I will take those." Josef strode into the room, flashed Newkirk a smile in passing.

"Thanks." Benson handed the clothing over, wiped his hands on his pants. Kurt paused in his task, his gaze passing from Benson, to his father, to Newkirk. Newkirk cringed, knowing what was coming. He looked to Josef for support, but the older man just gave him a wink and left the room.

"Did I or did I not tell you to lie down?" Kurt spread a clean cloth on the bed beside Tivoli, started laying out his instruments with meticulous care.

"Yes," Newkirk admitted, nodding even though Kurt was not looking his way. "But –"

"No buts!" Kurt threw him a brief, scalding look. "Just do it. Give your body a chance to recover from all that you've been through." His expression softened. "It is time to take care of yourself, now."

"Listen to the doc." Benson turned Newkirk around and ushered him toward the door. "Rest up. We still have the trip back to camp to look ahead to."

"Hadn't even thought of that," Newkirk murmured, letting himself be taken back to the couch. He dropped onto the cushions rather than sat, wincing as the pounding in his head intensified. He looked up at Benson and sighed. "Thanks, mate. Better be getting back. The doc might need your help."

"Sure thing." Benson studied Hogan, brow drawing down in a frown.

"I believe that he is only sleeping now," Romie offered, smiling lovingly down at Hogan. Her fingers carded through his hair, over and over, gentle and soothing.

Newkirk watched them for a few moments, then suddenly sat bolt upright. "Bloody!" He blanched, shot an apologetic look at Romie. "Sorry, mum." She merely smiled, dipping her head in forgiveness. Newkirk turned back to the Benson. "Our mates. We've got to let them know we're all right!"

"Our radio is not strong enough to reach Stalag 13, Peter." Pipe in hand, Josef calmly walked out of the kitchen and took the rocker near Romie. "But I'm certain that word will soon reach them of your rescue. Many feared for your safety this past night."

"Me, included," Newkirk muttered. He leaned forward, wearily rested his forearms on his thighs.

Josef studied him with concern. "You are most welcome to stay in our home until you are all well enough to travel to Stalag 13."

"Thank you, Herr Metzger." Benson's tone was respectful.

"Josef, bitte." He puffed on his pipe, his gaze coming to rest upon Romie and Hogan. The rocker creaked from his slow, steady rocking; the smoke from his pipe curled toward the beamed ceiling.

Benson scratched at his jaw, fingernails rasping over stubble. "Your offer is really kind, sir. . . Josef. But after what happened out there today, it's safer for you that we don't stay any longer than necessary. The Gestapowill be on the warpath once they hear about what happened to that patrol."

Josef's rocking slowed to a stop, sadness falling over his expression. Romie released a soft sigh. Her hand dropped to Hogan's chest and slowly rubbed back and forth.

"I'm betting Colonel Hogan will say the same." Newkirk stared down at Hogan, his eyelids drooping.

Romie noticed him fighting sleep. "Lie down, Peter," she chided softly. "Rest. We'll keep watch over him now."

Newkirk hesitated, noticed the determined tilt to her head, and acquiesced. Under her watchful eye, he drew his legs onto the couch and stretched out. A yawn, long and gusty, erupted as soon as his body was horizontal. Benson chuckled, reached down and slapped Newkirk's boot.

"Have a good nap, buddy."

Newkirk yawned again, waved him toward the bedroom. Benson started to go, then caught the look Romie was giving him from the floor. With a flick of her blue eyes, she drew his attention to the blanket draped over the back of the couch. Grinning, he followed her direction and spread it over Newkirk.

"Ta . . ." Newkirk murmured, eyes already closed. His breathing slowed and deepened, his head lolling toward the back of the couch. Romie and Benson exchanged smiles, then Benson turned on his heel and headed back to the bedroom. His smile was long gone by the time he entered it, closing the door firmly behind him.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Baker sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders and marched into the radio room. Kinch sat by the radio, monitoring the airwaves for news of their missing friends. He ignored Baker's arrival, continued writing on his notepad. Undaunted, Baker strode up to the table. Kinch's writing never faltered, the scratching of his pencil across the paper and the hum of the radio the only sounds in the room. Baker tried to take a peek at what Kinch was writing, but did not have a clear view. He gave a mental snort.

_Probably writing down his mother's recipe for cornbread dressing. Anything to look busy and to keep me from trying to get him to leave. Well, I can be just as stubborn as you, buddy._

Baker settled into parade rest, ready to wait as long as necessary. Sooner or later, Kinch would have to acknowledge his presence. Then, Baker could try yet again to convince Kinch to return to the barracks to rest.

"I'm not going," Kinch grumbled without looking up. He flipped the page over; the pencil started scratching across the paper again.

Baker counted to five, took a long look at the stubborn set of Kinch's jaw and added another ten count. All counted out and feeling calmer for it, he opened his mouth to deliver the argument he had practiced all the way from the barracks to the radio room. With instincts rivaling their commanding officer's, Kinch beat him to the punch.

"I'm not leaving until we hear about them – either way. Unless you plan on keeping me company, you can take yourself back to the barracks." Kinch turned another page, checked a few dials on the radio and made some more notes.

Thwarted again. Several seconds passed while Baker regrouped. Kinch's eyes flicked to his face, then zipped right back to the paper. Baker had to admire his fellow sergeant's ability to keep writing without looking. Several more seconds passed, then, just when Baker was ready to make another try, Kinch tossed the notepad down, stuck the pencil behind his ear, grabbed a tattered radio manual off the table and buried his nose in it. Baker's lips thinned in disgust. He should have seen that move coming from a mile away.

He mentally rolled up his sleeves, determined that this time, none of Kinch's avoidance tactics would stop him.

"Kinch—"

Kinch suddenly tensed, one hand pressing an earpiece tight to his head. The manual dropped, unnoticed, to the table. Baker moved closer, wishing for the umpteenth time that they had another set of headphones. Unable to stand the suspense, he dared break into Kinch's concentration.

"Is –"

Kinch's head jerked in irritation, his hand slicing toward Baker in a clear 'shut up' gesture. Baker promptly shut up, rocked on the balls of his feet to relieve at least a little of the stress of waiting.

"Reading you. Say again." Kinch's voice was smooth as honey, completely calm. If not for his tense expression, Baker would have thought his fellow sergeant was discussing what he planned to have for lunch.

Kinch's expression suddenly hardened, his hand clenching into a fist. Baker went utterly still, heart and stomach dropping.

"Bad?" Kinch asked the voice on the other end.

Baker gulped. Kinch glanced over at him; held up a finger. Baker resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Wait? That was all they had been doing!

For what felt like forever to Baker, Kinch listened, alternately nodding and frowning in response to whatever he was being told. Baker heard an unpleasant noise and suddenly realized it was his teeth grinding together.

"Roger that. Out." Kinch flipped switches, turned dials, and threw the lever to power down the radio. Baker jittered and bounced on his feet, so bursting with impatience, he thought he would jump right out of his skin. Kinch hung up his headphones, blew out a slow breath and turned to him with a burgeoning grin. Baker threw back his head, clapped his hands to the top of his head and let out a shout of joy. Kinch stood and clapped him on the back.

"That was Rumplestilskin," Kinch said in a shaky voice. "They found them." The underlying sadness in his tone killed Baker's elation.

"Kinch? What's wrong?"

Kinch sat back down, the shadows in his expression deepening. "Papa Bear wouldn't wake up and has hurt a paw. The cub has a headache and 'Italy has a serious case of lead poisoning'."

Baker had a sudden desire to sit, but the only available seat was already taken. "Tivoli's been shot?" Images of the argumentative Italian flooded his mind. "Did Benson do it?" He winced even before Kinch skewered him with a hard stare. This was no time for tasteless jokes. "How soon will they be here? How bad off is he? Where did he get hit? Is the bullet still in him? Oh, geez. O'Malley's too sick to get it out. We'll need to contact—" Kinch held up a hand and Baker brought his runaway mouth to a screeching halt.

"They were going to visit old MacDonald."

It took a moment for Baker's brain to make the proper connections. "The Metzgers' farm." At Kinch's nod, Baker pivoted in place, uncertain what to do with himself.

Kinch rubbed his eyes, his posture slumping. "Good news, bad news."

"To quote Newkirk," Baker sighed, doing his own slumping against the table. "Too bloody right."

**_To be continued. _**

_Thank you for reading!_


	19. Chapter Eighteen

_As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner. It would take a whole page to list the reasons why. _

**Chapter 18**

"Robert? Robert, can you hear me?"

Newkirk pried his eyes open, drawn by the sound of Romie calling to Hogan. He turned his head, blinking to bring the room into focus. Romie, still seated on the floor, was bent over his CO, one hand cupped to his cheek. Josef was down on one knee, anxiously watching her efforts. Newkirk pushed himself into a sitting position, biting back a moan. The only time he had felt worse was as a teen, when two rival gang members had caught and beaten him for encroaching upon their territory.

"Wake up, Robert." Romie lightly patted Hogan's cheek. His lips parted, a soft sound of pain slipping out. Romie glanced up at Josef. He tugged the blankets down, reached across Hogan's body to grip his good hand.

"Robert . . ." Josef paused, lips tightening with worry. "You are frightening us. Wake up now."

Alarmed, Newkirk sat bolt upright and threw his legs over the side of the couch. The room spun, his stomach executing a nauseating flip. "What's wrong?"

Romie dropped a kiss on Hogan's forehead, murmured something in German too soft for Newkirk to understand. Josef sent a quick, hopeful glance toward the bedroom door. That was enough for Newkirk. Ignoring his own aches and pains, he got to his feet and moved slowly to Josef's side.

"He is warm, but he will not wake," Romie told Newkirk. She lowered her gaze to Hogan's face again, tears filling her blue eyes. Deeply affected by her distress, Newkirk sought to reassure her.

"Could be he's just completely fagged out, Mum."

Romie and Josef glanced from him to each other, their foreheads wrinkling into frowns of bewilderment.

Newkirk chuckled. "Very, very tired." The laughter irritated his raw throat, provoking another cough. He turned his head away from them, contained the cough in his fist.

Hogan looked okay, all things considered. His face definitely had better color and there was no sign of fever that Newkirk could see. He crouched, laid the back of his hand on Hogan's forehead. It felt slightly warmer than normal, but not enough to be alarmed about. The fire and blankets seemed a plausible explanation.

Bracing his elbow on his knee, Newkirk rested his forehead in his palm, being careful to avoid the knot. An idea flitted through his mind, something he had seen Kurt do once.

"Pardon me, Josef." Newkirk nudged the elderly man to one side, then paused, thinking things through a little more. He made brief eye contact with the Metzgers, who were watching him with curious expressions. "Josef, you might want to back up a bit. Mum, you lean back as far as you can." Puzzled but willing, they did as he asked. With them safely out of range, Newkirk put his knuckles to Hogan's sternum and rubbed hard. He got an immediate reaction.

Hogan yelped. His eyes snapped open, his good arm flying up to knock Newkirk's hand away. Knocked off balance, Newkirk sat down hard, a grin already spreading across his face. It did not matter that his head was pounding with renewed vigor or that he had a sore rump to add to his aches. It was all worth it to see Hogan awake.

"Ow," Hogan murmured, blinking up at the ceiling. His voice strengthened, outrage seeping into his tone. "OW!"

Romie laughed in relief. Taking his face between her hands, she leaned down and touched her nose to his then pulled back far enough that he could see her clearly. His eyes rounded in surprise, then softened with a smile.

"Hi." He reached up to touch her face, let his hand drop to cover hers. Newkirk blew out a long sigh, expressing his own relief. Hogan was not only awake – he was lucid.

Josef rested his hand on Hogan's stomach. "Welcome back, Robert."

"I don't know from where, but thank you." Hogan smiled warmly at him, then caught sight of Newkirk, still sitting on the floor nearby. His smile fell away, myriad emotions passing quickly over his face.

"Newkirk."

Newkirk returned to his side, nodded down at him in acknowledgement and satisfaction.

"Colonel."

Hogan's gaze intensified, raked over him. "Are you all right?"

Newkirk opened his mouth to respond, but Josef answered first.

"He is exhausted and has a very bad cough."

Hogan's lips pursed, his eyes moving from Josef back to Newkirk. Anxious to divert his concern, Newkirk rushed to speak.

"I'm not as bad off as Tivoli, Guv'nor –"

"Tivoli?" Hogan interrupted, alarm filling his tone. "What happened to him?"

"He took a bullet in the back. The doc's in with him and Benson now, taking it out."

"How the heck did he get shot? And what're he and Benson doing here, anyway?"

Newkirk quickly filled him in, leaving out the most distressing details in deference to the Metzgers' presence. While he talked, it did not escape his notice that Hogan was not making the slightest attempt to get off the floor. It was completely unlike him, especially with three people hovering over him, and knowing one of his men was badly injured. Newkirk could think of only one reason why Hogan would choose to stay down.

_How badly are you hurting, Guv'nor?_

Hogan suddenly noticed the bright sunlight streaming into the room through the lace curtains, throwing patterns on the braided rugs. A note of panic entered his voice.

"What time is it? What -- "

Romie put her finger to his chin, nudged his head toward her. "Calm down, Robert. Do not worry. All will work out. You will see this, yes?"

Josef nodded. "Whatever else happens, you and your men are alive."

Newkirk's gaze darted to the bedroom door. "Let's hope it stays that way."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Tivoli moaned around the cloth clamped between his teeth, his face haggard and washed of color. Strands of black, soaked hair stuck to his forehead and tears leaked from his eyes. Kurt paused in his work, metal forceps and probe stuck deep in the bloody hole in Tivoli's back. He leaned down; offered quiet words of comfort.

"Just a few moments more. You are doing remarkably well."

A black eye awash in tears and sweat rolled to peer up at Kurt. Garbled words issued from between Tivoli's clenched teeth. Kurt cocked his head, bird-like, then straightened and looked to Benson, seeking translation.

" 'Finish it'." Benson could not have agreed more. He felt slightly woozy from the sickening smell of the blood and his lack of sleep. His attention wandered for a moment. One of his hands, locked upon Tivoli's biceps, slipped on the damp, slippery skin. He quickly re-positioned his hand, steadying and keeping the Italian flat upon the bed. Tivoli shifted,his black eyes seeking the room's only window. Benson glanced that way too; glad to look at something other than Tivoli's suffering.

The sun was high in the sky now, the weather finally clear of rain clouds - a beautiful day. Tivoli uttered a guttural sound and looked up at him, lips twitching into a distorted smile. Benson found the expression on his face easy to read.

_A beautiful day and here we are doing **this!**_

Benson smiled. "My thoughts exactly, buddy."

Tivoli seemed to stop breathing, his eyes growing fractionally larger. It took Benson a moment to sort through his words. One leapt out at him.

_Buddy. _

The cold, hard mask that Tivoli hid behind had been slipping with increasing frequency, each time revealing a little more of the man. And each time it happened, Tivoli seemed to have more trouble putting that mask back on – as if he was no longer comfortable wearing it. Benson looked forward to the time that the mask stayed off for good. There was a good man beneath it. One Benson wanted to call friend. He stared into the startled, black eyes, wondering.

_How long has it been since anyone claimed you as a friend? How long has it been since you let them?_

Kurt released a small sound of satisfaction, gave a slight twist to the forceps. Tivoli gasped, jerked on the bed. His eyes slammed shut again, his white-knuckled hand knotting the pillowcase. Slowly, in painstaking increments, Kurt withdrew his forceps from his back. Clamped between the instrument's teeth was the flattened, blood-smeared bullet.

"You got it!" Benson's smile quickly fell away, worry surging back. Tivoli had passed out.

Kurt sighed, sadness and weariness clouding his expression. He deposited the forceps and bullet in a pan set on the bedside table, then immersed his hands into the basin of alcohol beside it. The liquid immediately turned pink. Benson took his hands from Tivoli's arms, flexed cramped fingers.

"Is he going to be okay, Doc?"

Kurt studied Tivoli, absently wiping his hands dry with a clean towel. His mouth drew into a thin line. "I believe so."

Benson voiced his other concern. "What about his arm?"

Kurt tossed the towel down next to the basin, took a slow, deep breath. The hesitation only served to increase Benson's unease.

"I cannot say for certain. We will know more once he regains consciousness. Now, if you will excuse me, the wound must be cleaned and sutured and then I must see to the colonel and Newkirk." Kurt paused, stared searchingly into Benson's eyes. "Thank you for your assistance. Your presence appeared to do much to calm Tivoli."

Benson smiled tightly. "He'd do the same for me. If you don't need me for awhile, Doc, I'd like to check on everyone."

Kurt nodded, already turning back to the bed. Benson threw a worried look at Tivoli, then left the room, hoping to find more good news.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Romie and Josef sure had a house full that time. 'Course, it wasn't the first time they'd put up a bunch of us on a moment's notice. No, Katie. They didn't mind at all. It was definitely a case of 'the more the merrier' with them. They opened their hearts to just about everybody, I guess."

"Calling me on that one, are you, Teddy? Clever lad. Don't worry, Katie. He won't get a big head 'cause we won't let him, will we? All right, settle down or there won't be time for the rest of this tale. Huh. Never seen you lot go so quiet so fast. Don't know that your mum and da would ever believe me if I told them."

"Anyroad, Teddy's right. There were a few Romie and Josef didn't like at all. The Gestapo, for one. The SS, for certain sure. And then there was that General . . . hmmmm . . . Ryker! Can't say as I liked any of them, either. And there was . . . well. This teaches me not to make such a general statement, now doesn't it?"

"Look here. It's getting nigh on time for tea. Got to finish this up."

"What's that, Benjamin? Certainly, I've got time for one more question. Always have time for you three, no matter the time nor day. Teddy . . . you've got that look again. I'm in for an early morning ring, aren't I? 'Course, you have to be awake to ring me up. And we all know that you didn't inherit your mum's early morning rising habits. I'm thinking that I'm pretty safe."

"While Teddy's thinking up ways of staying awake all night, why don't you ask your question. Benjamin."

"Romie got so upset because she loved the colonel like her own son, little mate. She and Josef just about adopted every one of us. But the guv'nor . . . well, he always held a special place in their hearts. And they held a special one in his. Romie more than Josef, I think. Why, little mate? Well . . . it would take another whole afternoon to tell that. She was something. A real grand lady."

"Hmmm? Oh. Sorry, Katie. Got lost in time again, didn't I? All right then. Let's get this tale told."

"Well, while we were getting ourselves sorted out at the Metzgers', our mates were still hanging about."

_**To be continued. Thank you for reading!**_


	20. Chapter Nineteen

_As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner. It would take a whole page to list the reasons why. _

**Chapter 19**

"Missed."

"Did not. It went over the goal post. That counts."

A frown creased Carter's forehead. "I don't know." Wanting to be fair, he called for an unbiased opinion. "Graham? What do you think?"

Graham raised his head off his pillow far enough to look across the room at Carter, who was sitting atop Newkirk's bunk. His gaze slid from there past the barracks door to Olsen, perched cross-legged atop Braveheart's bunk. Olsen raised his eyebrows at him in a hopeful, somewhat pleading expression. With a long-suffering sigh, Graham turned his gaze back to Carter.

"Was it toward the outside of the post or the inside?"

"Outside," Carter proclaimed decisively. He tapped the top of the bunk's support post with his index finger, showing the exact spot where their paper football had flown over it. Their game had been going on for some time, a way of distracting themselves while they waited for word on their friends. After a blistering competition, the score was dead even.

Roused by the argument, LeBeau slowly rolled over in Olsen's bunk to see what was going on. He dully noted Carter sitting on Newkirk's bunk, then slowlylifted himself up far enough to clearly see Hogan's quarters. The door was shut. Biting his lip, LeBeau looked around the room, searching for Hogan and Newkirk. Not seeing them, he fell back on the bed, pulled his fists tight against his chest and curled onto his side.

"It was inside, I tell you." Olsen braced his hands on his knees, pulled his shoulders back to their fullest extent. Using a stilted baritone, he announced to the room, "The kick was good. Game to Olsen's Outstanding Orange Ocelots."

"Hey!" Carter scowled at him.

"Aye, for pity's sake!" O'Malley groaned, rolling onto his side so that he could see them. "Off-side penalty. Re-kick!"

Olsen, thinking that sounded like a wonderful ruling, nodded enthusiastically. Carter shook his head, totally disagreeing with them both. He jabbed his finger into the mattress beneath him.

"I didn't move from my stance one bit." He scanned the room for support. "Not at all!"

O'Malley flopped onto his back, grabbed his blanket and yanked it over his head.

"Sorry, Carter," Braveheart called weakly from the bunk beneath his own, which Olsen currently occupied. "The popcorn vendor distracted me. I didn't see a thing."

"Anybody see the beer guy, send him over," Parker said under his breath. His face scrunched up as his stomach cramped again. "On second thought, don't send him over."

"Got that right," Paxton growled, walking by with a fistful of clean towels. He glared at Carter, shook the towels at him. "Don't you go overdoing it and get yourself sick again. I'm running out of towels and buckets."

Carter did his best to look contrite, his wan face taking on a faint, reddish hue. "Promise," he assured Paxton, swiftly crossing his heart.

"Re-kick, re-kick, re-kick," Olsen chanted, pumping his fist with enough vigor to rock the bunk frames. Braveheart let out a strangled groan, reached up and smacked the underside of the bunk.

"Knock it off or I'll come up there and puke on you!"

Olsen flinched, his shoulders hunching about his head. He leaned out, sent an apology down to Braveheart.

"Oh, all right," Carter sighed with ill-grace. "Re-kick." He plucked the paper football off his mattress and with a flick of his wrist, tossed it back to Olsen.

Smiling ear to ear in triumph, Olsen positioned his hand on his mattress, teed up the folded paper football between his thumb and index finger, hunched over and lined up the shot again. Carter frowned, but in the spirit of sportsmanship, remained stock still. Around the room, those who had been following the impromptu game made a few fast wagers. Blocking out the crowd noise, Olsen closed one eye in concentration, finger drawn back to flick-kick the ball out of the tee and through the air. The betting stopped; everyone froze in position. Even O'Malley peeked from under his blankets. Olsen took a deep breath, prepared to deliver the blow that would send the football toward the goal posts.

The bunk entrance clattered open, startling Olsen just as his finger snapped, making contact with the football. It sailed two feet wide of the goal posts and fell to the floor beside the common room table. Carter's victory cry cut off as he caught sight of Baker climbing out of the tunnel. Silence fell as Baker walked to the center of the room.

"They're safe," he said simply, a smile spreading across his face.

Cheers of relief and happiness broke out. Baker let it go on for a few moments, then motioned for quiet. His smile faded, his voice turned somber.

"There's a but."

A collective groan went up. LeBeau pulled himself upright, weaving with dizziness. His quavering voice somehow carried over the noise, his questions capturing everyone's attention.

"Le colonel? Was he hurt? Newkirk?"

Baker turned his head, locked eyes with him. "Yes, but--"

More questions erupted around the room, drowning out the rest of Baker's words. Frustrated, he waved his arms over his head and yelled for quiet.

"I can only tell you what we know at this point and that isn't much. One of the colonel's arms got hurt, Newkirk got knocked in the head, and it's probably safe to say they're both sore as the dickens."

Carter blanched. "Newkirk got hit in the head?"

"Ah, no," O'Malley sighed, casting a pleading look heavenward. "Please don't let the colonel's shoulder be messed up again. I swear there's some kind of trouble magnet in the darned thing."

"What about the other guys?" Olsen asked, fingers plucking nervously at the blanket.

Baker sighed. "As far as we know, Benson wasn't hurt, but somehow, Tivoli got shot."

"Shot?" Several questioned at once.

"Tivoli can be a mean S.O.B.," Graham said, casting a look around the room. "but I'd never want him shot."

Braveheart shook his head. "Me, neither. Plenty of times I've wanted to slam him upside the head, but not shoot him."

"I didn't know there was a bullet made that could get through that hide of his," Parker muttered from his pillow.

"Apparently there is." Baker started to say more, but spied a neglected coffee cup on the table. He leaned toward it, far enough to see it was half full.

Paxton noticed him looking. "I poured that coffee an hour ago, Baker. It's stone cold. The pot's empty, too."

Baker straightened, face falling in disappointment. LeBeau stirred, pushed at his blankets with trembling hands, preparing to stand.

"I will—"

"Stay put!" Baker snapped, thrusting his hand, palm out, in LeBeau's direction.

O'Malley's head jerked off his pillow, his angry gaze homing in on LeBeau. "Don't even think about moving from there!"

Faced with such strident opposition, LeBeau nodded meekly and lowered himself back on the bunk. O'Malley watched until he had settled, then did the same, muttering irritably under his breath.

"At least we know where they are now." Olsen stared, unseeing into the distance. His fingers continued picking and worrying at the blanket.

"Yeah, but they're still in danger." Baker slowly turned in place, focusing for a moment upon each man's health. With the exception of LeBeau and Parker, everyone seemed to be feeling better.

Graham sat up on his bunk, tucked his legs into a cross-legged position. "What's the plan for getting them back?"

"Kinch wants us to sit tight until we hear from the colonel. He may have something --" Baker suddenly frowned, turned toward the barracks door. It swung open and Schultz walked inside, looking even more like himself. With a nod to Baker, he started circling the room, pointing to each man, counting aloud. Panicked gazes flew back and forth behind his back as he neared Hogan's quarters.

Baker's sudden appearance in Schultz's path caught him by surprise. Each time he tried to conduct a head count, he was given a different reason for Hogan and Newkirk's absence. This time, he intended to see the two men in person. His chin lifted with resolve, his hand delivering a crisp, backhanded slap to Baker's shoulder.

"Move aside."

Baker hesitated, quickly weighed his options, then nodded and moved out of the way.The unexpected cooperation surprised Schultz yet again. Suspecting a trap of some sort, he stayed put, his pale blue eyes drilling into Baker's.

"What are you waiting for, Schultz?" Baker waved him on. "Go on in."

Schultz nervously considered Hogan's closed door, then turned back to Baker. "Please tell me that Colonel Hogan and Newkirk are in his quarters sleeping."

Baker shook his head. "Sorry, Schultz. No can do."

The other men watched and listened with interest, their eyes swinging between Baker and Schultz, following the flow of the conversation.

Schultz licked his lips; his eyes doing a nervous back and forth dance between Baker and Hogan's quarters. "They just left?"

Again, Baker shook his head. "Nope."

A pleading note entered Schultz's voice. "They are in the rec hall, dusting the Tommy Dorsey records?"

"Uh, uh." Baker folded his arms and leaned toward Schultz. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "You really want to know where they are?"

Schultz's nod swiftly changed to an emphatic 'no'. He gave Hogan's closed door another glance, then turned a pitiful expression upon Baker.

"Just tell me that they have not escaped," Schultz whined, wringing his hands.

"They have not escaped," Baker parroted, obliging him.

Schultz's hangdog expression evaporated. "Then there is no need to count."

"Nope," Baker confirmed, looking pleased.

Schultz did a quick about-face and hurried to the barracks door.

"Hey, Schultz," Baker called after him. Schultz paused, hand upon the door knob; brow knitted in obvious trepidation. "How's the kommandant doing? Still sick?" Hearing the question, a little of Schultz's tenseness bled away. He huffed out a breath, sadly shook his head.

"Ja. He is quite ill. A little water is all that he is able to keep down for now."

O'Malley's head came off his pillow again. "You make certain he keeps drinking, Schultz. Otherwise, he'll get dehydrated and then he's got real trouble."

Schultz nodded, tossed off a lazy wave and stepped outside. Baker waited until the door had swung shut behind him, then deflated with a long sigh.

"Quick thinking," Olsen commented.

"Hopefully, he won't darken our door for awhile." Baker turned and headed back to the tunnel entrance.

O'Malley rolled up onto an elbow, watched him slap the hidden lever in the bunk frame to open the entrance. His voice held an accusing note. "Where are you going?"

Baker stepped over the bunk frame and onto the ladder. He paused long enough to answer. "Back to check on Kinch and to let the rest of the goon squad know what's going on." He disappeared below and the bunk rattled back down on its hidden pulleys.

"Goon squad?" Olsen peeked over the edge of his bunk at Braveheart. "Did he say goon squad?" Braveheart smiled up at him, nodded.

Olsen pulled back, stared into space, expressionless. Then he grinned. "I like it!" A moment later, the grin fell away as quickly as it had appeared. His eyes narrowed to dark slits. "Wait a minute. What'd he mean by **'the rest **of the goon squad?' "

_To be continued. Thank you for reading!_


	21. Chapter Twenty

_Warning: Profanity._

_As always, I'm grateful for Marilyn Penner. It would take a whole page to list the reasons why. _

**Chapter 20**

"That's the way it was with us, Teddy. Just a bunch of us, all with different personalities and upbringings, living in a crowded room and making the best we could of it all. What? No, I'm not talking about your bedroom. What's wrong with your room? Oh, now. You each have a nice, soft bed, right? Not filled with musty-smelling straw that fleas and mice like to live in and keep you awake at night. You've got warm duvets. Yes, little mate. And a woobie to cuddle. And you have . . ."

"Why are you lot scratching so? Oh. Power of suggestion, eh? Never mind, Benjamin. Well, stop thinking about it and you'll stop itching. No, I don't see anything crawling on you."

"Now I've lost my train of thought. What were we talking . . . oh, yes. The living conditions in Stalag 13. They weren't good to begin with. Toss in all the stress and worry about missions, add the daily possibility of dying and the like, and . . . well, tempers sometimes got pretty thin. But we got on most of the time and found our fun where we could.There were lots of ways, Teddy.Oh, playing tricks on each other and on the guards. Softball and basketball games. An odd poker game or three. Why sure, Benjamin. 'Go Fish', too. Andrew liked that one real well. Kinch and the guv'nor were partial to chess. Certainly, Teddy. I bet Colonel Hogan would play a game or two with you. All you have to do is ask when he next comes to visit."

"So there were good times to be had, even in a place like Stalag 13. And I'll say this about my mates, too. We might have had our fights, but we never, ever turned a blind eye if one of us was in trouble. Not once. Spot on, Katie. Like families do. Like you and Teddy did for Benjamin with that older bunch."

"We looked out for each other. And same as a family, we fretted and stewed when any of us were away and in trouble. Waiting around was hard, what with not being able to do anything to help. But the worst was the not knowing. What do I mean by that? Not knowing what's happened or could be happening leaves the mind to cook up all sort of bad ideas. Take my word, little mate. Bad ones. Very."

"But let's get back to this mission. Tivoli, Benson, the colonel and I had our share of troubles, and we wanted to get back to camp and our friends soon as we could. But there were still some things that needed working out. That's right, Katie. Like why Colonel Hogan wasn't trying to get off that floor."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Romie," Hogan said softly, staring into the brilliant blue eyes above him. "How long have you been sitting on the floor?"

Newkirk's ears pricked. That question, in that mild tone of voice, had an ulterior motive behind it besides concern for Romie's comfort.

She shrugged, lightly brushed the hair off his forehead. "Do not concern yourself, Robert. My bones are not as brittle as you would believe." A teasing smile blossomed on her face. "And even though I am an old woman, I can still be as spry as one of your lovely, young frauleins. Being your pillow is no hardship at all. We so rarely have the chance to see you."

"Or Peter," Josef added, sharing a fond smile with Newkirk from his rocker. "Kurtgives us as much news as he can of you and your men, Robert. But it is nice to actually see you, even under these circumstances." Josef tapped his pipe against his palm, then dumped the ash from it into an ashtray beside his chair.

"We have missed you," Romie whispered down at Hogan, her eyes suspiciously bright.

Newkirk looked away. _Oh, mum. _

A weak smile tugged at Hogan's mouth. "I've missed you, too. It's nice being here now."

Newkirk sat up a little straighter on the couch, hearing a clear 'but' in his tone. Hogan reached across the blanket with his good hand, opening it in clear invitation. Romie grasped it in hers. While her attention was diverted, Hogan made eye contact with Newkirk.

_A little help, here?_

For some reason – and Newkirk had a good idea what that reason was – Hogan wanted Romie and Josef out of the room. Newkirk ducked his head and manufactured a cough behind his hand.

"I'm feeling a might peckish, mum. You wouldn't happen to have something that we could nibble on, would you?" He regretted using subterfuge on a woman he considered a second mother. But the one sure way he knew of to get Romie out of the room was to appeal to her maternal instincts. He had not counted on those same instincts seeing right through his ploy. She looked up at him, her brilliant, blue eyes crinkling with an indulgent smile.

"Peter, if you wish for me to leave the room so that you may talk with Robert, all you have to do is ask."

Newkirk's cheeks went hot with embarrassment. He glanced at Hogan, found that he was not the only one embarrassed at being caught out.

"My fault," Hogan told her, re-directing the gentle admonishment. "He was only doing what I asked."

Josef chuckled. He tucked his pipe away, slapped his hands on his thighs, and rose from the rocker.

"Come, Mother. Let us leave them so that they may talk freely."

"Sorry, sir," Hogan apologized, his brown eyes soft with contrition.

Josef nodded. "Understood."

"Let me help you, Guv'nor." Newkirk stood and offered his hand. Hogan hesitated, then reached out and took it. Newkirk pulled. The color leeched from Hogan's face. He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, startling Romie, who, with Josef's help, had gotten to her feet.

"Down!" Hogan gasped. Newkirk carefully eased him back to the floor, then crouched at his side, uncertain how to proceed.

"Robert?" Romie's voice had gone thin with concern. She knelt at his head, smoothed her hand down his cheek. "Are you —"

"Just a little stiff," Hogan cut in, giving her a tight smile.

Newkirk mentally shook his head at the obvious attempt to allay her fears. He could hear the strain in Hogan's clipped answer. Whatever small sense of relief he had felt upon his CO's awakening flew right out the window. Something was drastically wrong.

As unobtrusively as possible, he worked his fingers beneath the blanket and laid them on Hogan's wrist. A rapid pulse throbbed beneath his fingertips.

The bedroom door opened. Benson's stride faltered as he took in the scene before the fireplace. "What's going on?" He rushed across the room, rounded the end of the couch in several long strides and stared anxiously down at Hogan. "Sir?"

A light sheen of perspiration had appeared on Hogan's forehead. His pupils were dilated, his jaw locked. Newkirk threw a pleading look at Josef, silently begging him to get Romie out of the room - fast. Above all else, he knew Hogan would not want her witness to his agony -- and that was what he was currently enduring.

"Romie," Josef prompted, gently grasping her upper arms and pulling her back to her feet. She darted a helpless glance down at Hogan. Overly bright, brown eyes lifted to her, Hogan's brows quirking ever so slightly. With a sharp shake of her head – which told Newkirk she knew very well what was happening – she put her hand in Josef's and let him escort her into the kitchen.

A shudder rippled through Hogan. His eyes squeezed shut, his lips pulling back in a naked display of pain. Newkirk and Benson exchanged fearful glances.

"Get the doc." Newkirk shifted his weight onto his knees, ignoring the pull of a strained thigh muscle. He rested his hand lightly on Hogan's chest, more to provide comfort than anything else.

"He's stitching Tiv up," Benson protested quietly, taking the position Romie had occupied at Hogan's head. That was not what Newkirk wanted to hear.

"I bloody well don't give a—"

"Leave Kurt . . . be," Hogan gasped, pale and visibly trembling. "I . . . can wait!"

Newkirk bit his lip, torn between following the order and his overwhelming desire to get help. Benson made the choice for him.

With a mouthed, fervent expletive, Benson shot to his feet and turned for the bedroom, only to run right into Kurt. They bounced off each other, Kurt grabbing onto the back of the couch to keep his feet. Hogan's eyes shot open, instantly locked on him.

"Tivoli?"

"Resting." With a touch to Newkirk's shoulder, Kurt asked that he move out of the way. Newkirk did so, gritting his teeth when his body balked at the continuing requests to move. He edged past Hogan's blanketed feet, gratefully sat on the couch. Only then did he notice that Kurt had been watching his every move.

"Is Tivoli —" Hogan's question broke off with another gasp. Tears glimmered on his lashes.

"He is out of danger. For the moment, Robert, you are my main concern." Kurt pulled the blanket down to Hogan's waist, jerked his shirt open. Buttons flew, bouncing off the rug and onto the wood floor. Kurt's hands smoothed over the skin at the top of Hogan's shoulder, searching for injury. His brow furrowed, his blue eyes going distant as he let his fingers 'see' for him. His fingertips trailed along the collarbone, then skimmed back to the ball and socket of Hogan's shoulder and paused. "Is the pain in your shoulder? Your arm?"

"Back sp –" Hogan gasped, went rigid. His head flew back, whacking the braided rug so hard that Newkirk felt the vibration in the soles of his feet. Kurt leaned over Hogan, grabbed a pillow from the couch and put it under his head. A strangled sound rattled from Hogan's throat, followed by harsh, raspy panting. Newkirk's fingers curled, digging fingernails deep into his palms.

"Lordy," Benson breathed, raising his arms to lace his fingers atop his head. Catching movement from the corner of his eye, he looked that way. Romie and Josef stood in the kitchen doorway, their eyes frozen upon their son's attempts to help their surrogate son.

"Ahhh, damnit!" Hogan swore under his breath, grinding his teeth. His knees bent, his torso arching off the floor. Tears trickled into the hair at his temples. His chest and stomach heaved, muscles standing out in stark relief.

"Getting worse," Newkirk muttered, looking on in sympathy.

Kurt's gaze suddenly locked upon Hogan's left side. He touched the ribs there, traced them around to Hogan's back and stopped. In a single move, Kurt jerked back and bent lower, angling for a better look.

Benson dropped his hands, took a hesitant closer. "Did you find something?"

Josef and Romie moved toward them, his arm around her waist.

Kurt looked up at Benson through the blond fringe of his bangs. "Help me roll him over." Benson nodded, glad for the chance to help. Newkirk braced his hands on the couch, started to get up.

"Stay where you are!" Kurt told him. "Benson is help enough. You should avoid undue exertion." He cast a glance over his shoulder, seeking his parents. "Warm, damp towels, bitte." They rushed back to the kitchen. Seconds later, Newkirk heard the sound of running water and a kettle banging onto the woodstove.

Benson pulled in a deep breath. "How do you want to do this, Doc?"

Kurt met his eyes over Hogan's heaving body. "We will turn him toward you. Slowly. But first . . ." He gently raised Hogan's head and removed the pillow, then nodded to Benson. "Ready. Remember. Toward you. On three."

Hogan was only partly turned onto his side when Kurt tugged the shirt's tail up -and froze in place.

"What?" Newkirk cried, unable to see from the couch. He wanted to get up, but Benson was in his way. Another guttural moan rolled from Hogan's open mouth, his face gray with pain and wet with tears.

"Doc?" Benson's voice held a warning note. Eyes still fixed upon Hogan's back, Kurt gave a single, abrupt nod. They finished rolling Hogan onto his stomach, allowing everyone a clear view of his exposed back.

Benson's breath left him in a soft, inarticulate cry. Newkirk could only gulp, horrified at the damage. Tight-lipped, Kurt yanked scissors from his pocket and cut the shirt away.

Black, purple and red bruising extended from just below the top of Hogan's left shoulder nearly to his waist and partially across his spine. A blood-encrusted scrape angled across his ribs, mid-way down his back. Swelling had set in, distorting the normal shape of his ribcage. Newkirk's gaze slowly swung to Hogan's face.

"How'd you bloody stand it?"

"It – " Hogan swallowed thickly. "It wasn't this bad . . . before."

Kurt bent over Hogan's back, gently explored the injured area while Benson and Newkirk watched.

"What did this, Robert?" Kurt asked in a low voice. Hogan's jaw worked, as if he were trying to find the strength to answer.

"Log . . . in the river. Couldn't . . . couldn't get out . . . of the way . . . in . . . " Hogan moaned, pressed his forehead into the rug.

Kurt shook his head. He touched his fingers to Hogan's spine, mapping vertebrae. "Another four or five inches to the right and it would have snapped your back."

Benson rubbed a hand over his eyes, heaved a loud sigh. "What about his ribs? Did they break?"

"By some miracle, no."

"We were due a miracle or two," Newkirk muttered.

Kurt stopped his examination, sat back on his haunches. "The traumatic injury from the blow has caused the muscles to contract. The stiffening – the guarding, if you will, of the injury - is causing the spasms. By applying the warm, wet cloths, I hope to increase blood flow in the muscles. This will help them loosen. A massage will also help, but at first will be almost as painful as the spasms."

"Oh . . . goody," Hogan murmured sarcastically, dragging his good arm toward his head. His hand clutched spasmodically at the rug, his breath coming faster with another spasm. The panting turned to groaning when Kurt gently, but firmly started massaging his back.

"Robert, you are very close to hyperventilating," Kurt told him, working the rigid muscles. "Try to relax."

"Easy . . . for you . . . to say," Hogan huffed, body bathed in clammy sweat. "Newkirk. What about the --- OW!" A flow of breathless cursing followed.

"Sorry," Kurt murmured, pressing his thumbs into a knotted muscle.

Remembering Kurt's order to stay on the couch, Newkirk slapped Benson's arm to get his attention, then hitched his thumb. Benson quickly slid out of the way. Newkirk moved down the couch and leaned forward to make it easier for Hogan to see him.

"If it's the papers you're worrying about, Guv'nor, they're probably well on their way to London by now. I handed them off to Rumplestiltskin while you were still out of it."

Hogan grunted. "Good job. Whuh . . ." his "ow" trailed off into another moan. His lips peeled back again, revealing bloodied teeth. Newkirk leaned closer; saw where Hogan had badly bitten his lip. Benson saw it, too and murmured an "ow" of his own.

Josef returned and under Kurt's direction draped the warm, damp towels across Hogan's back.

"Danke, Vater. We will need to replace these as they cool."

Hogan wiped the tears from his eyes with shaking fingers, looked up at Benson.

"Help them."

"Yes, sir." Benson turned to go, paused, and turned back. "Can't you give him something to take the edge off the pain?"

"He knows . . . " Hogan hissed, eyes clenching tight again. "He knows better than to even suggest it right now."

Kurt snorted, his expression saying clearly what he thought about that. He continued massaging Hogan's shoulder and back, his hands moving in a firm, steady rhythm. Benson watched for a few seconds, then turned on his heel, gathered up Josef with a nod, and headed into the kitchen. Newkirk watched them go. Romie met them at the doorway, looked up at Josef as they directed her back into the kitchen. Their lowered voices drifted back to Newkirk, too low for him to hear their conversation.

"Newkirk?"

Newkirk jerked, startled. "Right here, Guv'nor." Kurt's pointed look kept him on the couch.

"Give --" a particularly forceful push of Kurt's hands brought another moan from Hogan's throat. After several panted breaths, he tried again. "Give me a complete . . . oh, geez . . . a complete . . . run-down of what - OW! . . .happened while I was out."

Quickly and concisely,Newkirk delivered his report, pausing only to answer Hogan's questions or when Josef came in with more towels.

"Good to know LeBeau made it back to camp one way or another. Now it's our turn," Hogan muttered. Newkirk could not have agreed more. The sooner they were back at camp, the sooner he could go to bed and sleep for a week without worrying about rivers, injured officers, or getting shot.

To his eyes, the towels and Kurt's massage appeared to be working. Hogan's sounds of pain were getting fewer, his body becoming more pliable under the doctor's skillful hands. The assessment was confirmed shortly after when Hogan easily turned his head to look over his shoulder at Kurt.

"How soon can Tivoli be moved?"

"As soon as you need him to, sir," Tivoli answered from the bedroom doorway. He let go of the doorjamb, stumbled toward them on weak legs. Benson stuck his head out of the kitchen, saw Tivoli, and rushed to his side. Kurt let out a growl of frustration at seeing the Italian on his feet.

"I've known sheep with better sense!" Benson snarled, snagging Tivoli's good arm and throwing it over his shoulder. Tivoli pulled his head back and squinted at him, full lips curving into a smirk.

"Yap, yap, yap."

Benson's only response to that was a roll of his eyes. Without any further sniping between them, he helped Tivoli over to Josef's rocker. Moving carefully and with Kurt's reluctant help, Hogan finally achieved a sitting position against the couch. His eyes followed Tivoli and Benson, watched while Benson got the Italian settled in the rocker with a pillow and blanket. And then he asked the question uppermost on everyone's mind.

"How's your arm?"

Tivoli wiggled his fingertips, a sly smile stretching across his face. "Still a southpaw, sir."

Benson let out a little cheer, beaming at the good news. Newkirk released the breath he had been holding, happy to see the improvement - happy, for that matter, to see everyone alive, all in one place, awake and talking. Hogan was apparently having similar thoughts while he returned Tivoli's steady regard.

"I'm glad to see you up and about, Tivoli."

Tivoli gave him a thin smile coupled with a very slight tip of his head. "Same here, Colonel."

Hogan chuckled. "Not quite to the 'about' part yet." He gestured to the sunlit window, his voice turning business-like as his gaze moved to include Benson and Newkirk in the conversation. "It's way past time for us to be back at camp. Even with the head counts and quarantines, our absence has probably been discovered by now."

For the next several minutes, Hogan laid out his plan to get everyone back in the quickest way possible. Romie and Josef remained in the kitchen, preparing the food that Newkirk had suggested earlier by way of distraction. Kurt checked Tivoli's dressings and saw to Newkirk's sore head. Newkirk suffered the antiseptic and bandage graciously, content to just sit and listen.

They were finally going home.

_To be continued. Thank you for reading!_


	22. Chapter Twentyone

_As always, I'm grateful to Marilyn Penner. It would take a whole page to list the reasons why. _

**Chapter 21**

"Yes, Katie, it was a grand feeling to know we'd soon be back with our friends. Remember how you felt when the day arrived that you could come home from camp? You couldn't wait, could you? Don't listen to Teddy, poppet. He was just as glad to see you home as the rest of us. And right on cue . . . another of Teddy's famous eye rolls! It's good that you can laugh at yourself, mate. Too many folk can't."

"We were happy to be going home that day, but Kurt wasn't. Because he thought Tivoli and Colonel Hogan were pushing themselves too hard too soon, little mate. They were both in bad shape, still. Tiv was weak, tiltin' and wobblin' all over the place, trying to act like he wasn't, and there was Benson growling and snapping enough for both himself and Kurt. Benson wasn't mad so much as worried, Teddy. Well, yes, it may seem a funny way of showing it, but take my word - he was worried for his friend. Worried for the guv'nor, too. But then Colonel Hogan hadn't had a bullet in his back just some hours before."

"Right, Katie. The colonel hadn't been able to move much. But Kurt had seen to his ribs and back. He'd wrapped them all up good and tight with bandaging and -- The wrapping was around just his ribs and back, little mate. Not his face or his arms and legs. They didn't need wrapping, Benjamin. No, he didn't look at all like one of those mummies you saw at the museum. Not that much wrapping, by far. Kurt wrapped just enough to support and protect the colonel's sore ribs and back. You can say that again. It probably did hurt like the very dickens having that wrapping on, but not as much as before Kurt coaxed those muscles into loosening a bit. I've never seen the guv'nor in so much pain that he couldn't keep it all in real quiet like. I don't mind telling you - it scared me good. Benson, too."

"Anyroad. The doc got us all mobile enough to -- mobile, Benjamin. Go ahead and tell him, Teddy. Spot on. Able to move. I couldn't have said it any better."

"So the doc got us ready to travel, grumbling all the while. How'd we get home? Well, sit back a little while longer and I'll tell you."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"All set Colonel." Benson jumped out of Schnitzer's truck, rocking it on its springs. "It'll be crowded, but I think we can –" a series of sneezes interrupted him, doubling him over at the waist. "Sorry, sir," Benson wheezed, straightening and wiping his watering eyes with his sleeve. Sniffling, he gestured over their heads at the loft, piled high with drifts of straw. "Dust allergies."

Hogan vaguely acknowledged him with a nod. His attention was partially turned inward, upon the muscles in his back. They were slowly seizing up again, making it harder to maintain a straight, normal stance even with Kurt's wrappings. At least his left arm was no longer completely useless - just nearly so. Wiggling his fingers and moving his hand was about all he could manage for the moment. According to Kurt, many, many hours of physical therapy lay in his future. It would not be the first time he had needed it for a shoulder injury, but hopefully, it would be the last.

The small side door to the barn swung open with a squeal. Josef entered at a fast walk, a large, yellow cat trotting along at his heels. Throwing a desultory glance at Schnitzer's truck, parked just inside the barn's double doors, Josef joined Benson and Hogan. The cat rubbed around and between their legs, then stationed itself at Josef's feet, purring loudly, one white-tipped paw occasionally kneading the dirt floor.

"It is done, Robert. Tiger will relay your message to your men and let them know that you are coming and will need help." With a mischievous sparkle in his eye, Josef added, "Her message to you was that she would visit with you later, once you are feeling better."

The flush that sprang to Hogan's cheeks had nothing to do with a fever. He cleared his throat, ignoring Benson's broad smile.

"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry we have to rush out of here, but the sooner we leave, the safer you'll be, and the less we'll have to explain away back at camp."

Schnitzer walked into view from the front of the truck, dusting off his hands on his rumpled jacket. "Everything is in readiness, Colonel."

"We're just about ready, too." Hogan shook the elderly man's hand, grateful that he had remained to see them home. "Thanks for all you've done for us, Schnitzer. You've made getting back to camp a heck of a lot easier on us. After last night, we need easy."

"I am most happy to be of help." Schnitzer offered him a wink and bright smile. "I had a very nice nap while I waited."

A sharp pain shot through Hogan's back. He tightened his lips, managing to turn a wince into a faint grin. "You deserved it. Last night had to be hard on you, too. Dodging patrols is never fun."

"Amen," Benson murmured fervently, rubbing at his eyes. Hogan sighed to himself. His men had been through hell and back. All he wanted was to get them home safely. Then, and only then, would he see to his own rest.

Josef's face suddenly twisted in pain. Looking down, he found his leg being used as a scratching post. He gave the cat a fond, if slightly exasperated smile, bent down and scooped it off the ground. With its lanky, yellow body cradled upon one forearm, he gently scrubbed the top of its head with his knuckles. Its green eyes closed in bliss, its purr deepening to a throaty roar. Hogan peered closely at the small, furry face, unable to believe what he was seeing.

"Is that cat smiling?"

"He is, yes." Josef chucked the cat under the chin, setting off a renewed round of purring.

Benson laughed, a little of the strain dropping from his face. "He sounds like the engine in a Martin Marauder."

With a last, loving rub down the center of the cat's head, Josef set it on its feet. "Go on now, Oskar, before you accidentally get stepped on." As if understanding his words to the letter, the cat glanced between Hogan and Benson, uttered a soft, 'y-a-a-a-h-h-h', and trotted away, bent tail swinging behind it.

Benson stared after it, surprise written all over his face. "Yah?" He turned his head, met Hogan's amused eyes. "All the cats I've ever heard just say 'meow'."

The side door opened again. Newkirk and Tivoli slowly limped inside, Kurt and Romie right behind them. Kurt's gaze was locked upon Tivoli's back, but his head was cocked attentively toward his mother. Romie was talking quietly yet with great intensity, the emotion on her face unmistakable. She was worried and Hogan had little doubt as to the cause. Studying his men, he was pretty worried, himself.

Newkirk looked as if he were half asleep, moving on will power alone. Kurt's bandage stood out like a white flag beneath his dark hair. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice was little more than a croak, and he was favoring his right leg. Tivoli sounded better than Newkirk, but looked even worse - like he had been dragged behind a horse over five miles of rough road. A sling exactly like the one Hogan wore had been rigged to hold and protect his left arm. Dark-rimmed eyes stared out of a pale face, beneath a forehead creased with pain that he kept insisting was 'not bad'.

Somewhere along the way, the Italian's attitude had undergone a change that Hogan found welcome, yet puzzling. Belligerent and barely obedient to Hogan's or anyone else's orders, Tivoli had spent the better part of his first month at Stalag 13 in the cooler. Now, though, still wary and edgy, he no longer seemed eager to provoke confrontations. Hogan watched while Benson steered Tivoli into Schnitzer's truck, the two of them trading good-natured insults and comments along the way.

_How about that._

Whatever Benson had done to get through to Tivoli had apparently worked. And Hogan could not have been happier about it. After months of trying to do the same, he had nearly run out of ideas. He had sensed the Italian held a grudging respect for him, yet for whatever reason, kept bucking his authority. Until today, anyway.

Hogan sighed. He was no psychiatrist. But at least the hours of PT would allow him the time to possibly work out some answers to the Italian conundrum.

Newkirk limped to the back of the truck, planted one foot on the bumper, hesitated, and looked back at Hogan. He sent the Englishman on his way with a reassuring smile, letting him know that he was all right – functional, at least. Newkirk plainly did not believe it, but he nodded and climbed into the truck anyway.

Hogan's smile faded when he glanced over at Kurt, Josef and Romie, hovering in the background. His second family, one he had not asked for but would not trade for anything. With a nod, he signaled Kurt to approach, separating the doctor from his parents so that they could talk in private. Kurt settled before him, anxious blue eyes doing a quick, professional scan of Hogan's condition.

"You are very good at walking the knife's edge of exhaustion," Kurt commented in a thoughtful voice.

Hogan started to shrug, but quickly checked the movement. No use aggravating already strained muscles. "My men are exhausted. I, on the other hand, have been out for most of the time, flat on my back or getting carried around." He made no mention of the vague moments of semi-consciousness, when an overwhelming sense that his men were in trouble had pulled at him, driving him to act – to do something. Snatches of angry voices, gunshots and shouts all tumbled together in his mind. Only one thing stood out with painful clarity: he had done nothing to help them.

"You believe you failed them somehow." Kurt's tone was softer, wary, as if he were aware that he was the one now treading a thin line.

"Yes," Hogan answered, clipping the word, uncomfortable, as always, when his insightful friend saw too much. Sensing Kurt was about to say more, he shook his head, cutting him off. This was neither the place, nor the time for this discussion. Kurt sighed, his gaze briefly lowering to their feet. As if sensing his sadness, the cat had reappeared to offer its own form of comfort. It sat down in front of Kurt and blinked up at him, a series of soft 'yahs' issuing from its mouth.

"I am all right, Oskar," Kurt murmured, kneeling and stroking the cat's cheek. With a stroke down its back, he sent it on its way. It bounded over to Josef and Romie, ready to comfort them as well.

"Thanks," Hogan said, gripping the top of Kurt's shoulder. His friend's gaze lifted, his blue eyes bored into Hogan's.

"How will you get down that ladder with only one arm?" Kurt nodded in the direction of the truck. "How will Tivoli?"

"I'm sure we'll have some help."

Kurt glanced away, lips pressing tightly together. His voice grew even softer, strained. "You used up another of your nine lives on this mission, Robert. "

Hogan hesitated, then tightened his grip and tugged Kurt forward into an awkward, one-armed hug. "I know. But thanks to my men and my friends, I'm still around to enjoy the rest of them." Releasing him, Hogan went to Josef and Romie and gave his good-byes. They peppered him with parental admonishments, and in Romie's case, tearful kisses. Hogan reluctantly pried himself from their embraces, gave the cat in Josef's arms a quick head rub, and turned to Schnitzer. The elderly man had been waiting patiently beside his truck, a soft smile upon his face.

"Ready when you are," Hogan told him. "Let's go home."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Kinch lowered himself into a seat at the common room table, acutely aware of O'Malley watching. The medic's green-tinged complexion did not hide his ire at seeing Kinch still up and walking around. Baker was not happy about it either, but none of his arguments had convinced Kinch to lie down.

Paxton left Parker's bed side, grabbed up a couple of tin cups and ladled broth into them from a pot on the wood stove. He set one cup on the table before Kinch, handed off the other to Baker and then went back to helping Graham change soiled bedding. Kinch waited until his back was turned, then slid the cup away with a slow, backward sweep of his hand. O'Malley's harrumph of displeasure was heard but completely ignored.

"We need some kind of diversion," Kinch thought aloud, remembering Tiger's message. "Something to keep the guards from seeing them."

"Yeah," Baker agreed, slowly nodding down at the contents of his cup. Putting it to his lips, he took a tentative slurp, grimaced, and quickly deposited the cup on the table.

"They're coming in hurt and exhausted," Kinch continued, wearily propping his chin in one hand.

"Moving like turtles, then," Olsen murmured. He was still comfortably seated cross-legged on Braveheart's bunk, his cup of broth cooling at his knee.

"Like three-legged turtles." Parker gulped down the dregs of his weak broth, stuck his tongue out in silent comment of the taste.

"**Loud,** three-legged turtles," LeBeau amended softly from Olsen's bunk, his heavy-lidded eyes staring into space as if picturing his friends' return. At the sound of his voice, Paxton dropped an armful of sheets into the communal basket and went to see if the Frenchman had finished his broth. Finding the cup still full and LeBeau deaf to his urges to drink it, he gave up and went back to tidying up the barracks.

Baker sighed. "Both Tivoli and the colonel will have trouble climbing down the ladder. They'll need help."

Kinch looked up, made eye contact with Baker. "They're on their way by now. We've got to come up with an idea fast."

Carter snapped his fingers. "How about –"

The bunk over the entrance shot up, the bunk's frame ladder dropping into the tunnel. A brief, 'what the heck?' look passed between Kinch and Baker. Standing, Kinch joined him near the end of the table and they – along with everyone else in the room – waited to see who appeared. Voices raised in irritation rose out of the tunnel below.

"I told you –"

"Maddux! Get your lazy butt up the ladder so the rest of us can go up!"

"Shaddup! I'm moving, already!"

Baker and Kinch stared in consternation as first Maddux, then Jones, Broughton and Lyons poured out of the tunnel and into Barracks Two. Like a bunch of rowdy, overgrown puppies, Baker's 'goons' gathered in front of the bunk entrance, ignoring the wide-eyed looks and muttering that had gone up at their appearance.

Kinch's gaze swept over the four men. "What's this about?"

"Whatever it is that you got going, we want to help. Sir," Lyons answered first.

Maddux squared his shoulders. "Got that right."

"We're tired of standing around twiddling our thumbs," Broughton said, aiming his words at Baker, rather than Kinch. "It don't take no rocket scientist to figure that Tivoli and the rest of them will need help getting back into camp."

Jones nodded. "So, here we are. Ready and willing." He peered past Baker and Kinch, his serious expression melting into a broad smile. "Hey, Olsen!"

Smiling back at him, Olsen returned the enthusiastic greeting with a lazy wave. Carter's narrowed eyes swung back and forth between the two men, taking note of the friendly exchange. His weren't the only eyes watching them with keen interest.

Kinch studied them. "All right. You can help. You're still about the healthiest guys we've got."

"How about letting the dogs loose?" Broughton suggested, once Kinch had explained the problem. "Those clowns will have their hands full rounding them back up."

"Then I shall help, also," LeBeau said with firm conviction. He struggled into a sitting position on the edge of his bunk. "The dogs listen to me best."

Baker shook his head. "No way."

"Stay there," Kinch ordered LeBeau. "We're not using the dogs."

Jones' bushy eyebrows rose with a sudden thought. "We could make them think we're trying to escape. You know – act like we're cutting the wires or something."

"Stupid plan!" Maddux yelped, rounding on Jones and punching him in the shoulder. "Geez, Jonesie! Get us shot, will ya?"

"Could you hold it down to a roar?" O'Malley groaned, clutching his head in hands.

"I could sneak outside," Carter called to Kinch. "And draw the guards to the other side of camp by throwing some firecrackers into the bushes like we did that –"

Kinch slowly waved his arm in the air and the cacophony of voices faded. He smothered a cough, then pointed a finger at Jones, keeping his words to minimum. "Get the phonograph out of the rec hall." He turned to Maddux next. "You think you can get Klink's records without getting caught?"

"Oh, yeah," Maddux said, drawing the words out with cocky confidence.

"What do you need the records and phonograph for?" Carter asked; looking slightly deflated that his idea had not been chosen.

"What's up your sleeve?" Baker asked, perplexed.

The corners of Kinch's mouth turned up in a faint smile. "A way to make the Krauts stand still for as long as we need them to, that's what." He turned back to the goon squad, gestured to the entrance behind them. "Today, fellas?" They turned with surprising speed, and in a moment were long gone except for their fading voices. With a tired shake of his head, Kinch moved to follow. Carter watched him step onto the ladder.

"How can I help?"

"Don't let me catch you down here," Kinch warned, steadying himself with one hand on the bunk frame. As expected, O'Malley had something to say about that.

"And why should he listen to you, when you're setting such a shining example of going back down there?" O'Malley sat, wavering on the edge of a bunk. Black-rimmed eyes glared balefully across the room at Kinch. "I heard that cough, don't think I didn't."

_You would_, Kinch sighed to himself. He avoided looking up at Baker, knowing his friend wanted him to rest as badly as O'Malley did.

"I can't just sit here," Carter complained, fisting his hand in the blanket.

"He's right." Olsen dropped to the floor from Braveheart's bunk and marched across the room to take a stand beside Baker. "Like Baker said. They'll need help climbing down. Well, I volunteer."

He set his feet and crossed his arms, daring Kinch to order him back to bed. Around the room behind him, others abandoned their bunks – Carter and LeBeau the first among them - and gathered at his back. Kinch stared up at the ring of determined faces and gave in.

"All right," he sighed, beckoning them on. "Come on." He climbed down into the tunnel, their cheers wafting over his head.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_Oskar the cat is lovingly based upon our own beloved cat, Banana. He was dumped on our farm eight years ago and quickly made a home for himself in our hearts. His gentle, patient and clownish nature endeared him to all who ever met him and he ruled over our farm until this summer when we tearfully laid him to rest. The hole that he left behind in our lives still hurts, but we will forever cherish the memories and love that he gave us. Even now, months after his passing, I still expect him to bounce out of the barn to greet me with a smile and loud 'YAH!' when I return home from work.  
_

_**Thank you for reading. The next chapter will be the last!**_


	23. Chapter Twentytwo

For Marilyn.

**Chapter 22**

_Our timing has to be perfect._

Baker shifted, trying to relieve a cramp that had set into his foot. Music from the German's radio broadcast played in his earphones. So far, all had gone according to Kinch's plan. They had tapped into Stalag 13's PA system, Maddux had managed to 'borrow' Klink's record collection and Jones had brought the phonograph from the rec hall.

_Now comes the really tricky part._

Baker caught himself nibbling at his thumbnail and stuffed his hand into his trouser pocket. Distracted by the movement, Kinch glanced up, his eyes slightly pinched in pain. Baker reached into his shirt pocket for the aspirin he had put there earlier.

"Here," he said quietly, dumping the tablets onto his friend's palm. "They'll help with that headache."

Kinch did not dispute the observation. He tossed the aspirin back, chasing them down with a sip of lukewarm coffee. Baker released a long sigh, lifted and flexed his cramping foot. The aspirin had served a double purpose: to take the edge off of Kinch's headache and to possibly ease his friend's sore throat. Baker had seen the winces and heard the soft throat clearing. The prolonged time in the damp tunnel and the lack of rest had done their damage. Kinch's illness was on the rebound, just as O'Malley had feared. As if hearing his thoughts, Kinch looked up again, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

"I promise to go right to bed as soon as we have them back safe."

"You promise," Baker echoed, unable to hide the doubt in his voice.

Kinch nodded and went back to reading the script he had written in record time. His lips moved, mouthing the words, preparing for his performance.

"You sure you can do this?" Baker asked him, worried by the growing rasp in his friend's voice.

"I could have," Carter interrupted in mild protest. He stood with LeBeau, the phonograph on the table before them. In the light cast by the bare bulb, both showed the ravages of their recent illness. LeBeau looked the worst, but had that stubborn jut to his jaw that boded ill for anyone who dared try and get him to leave. Carter's face was still drawn, but to Baker's relief, his blue eyes were bright and clear again. Olsen hung off to one side, uncharacteristically quiet and still, ready to fulfill his part of the charade.

"Your German is good, but not enough for a sustained performance like this, Carter," Kinch countered, softening his argument with a smile.

"But will your voice hold out?" Baker worried aloud, unable to let go his fears. Kinch's gaze shifted to him, filled with understanding.

"Yes."

Maddux skidded into the room, breathless from his rush from the barracks. "Paxton just saw the dog-guy's truck go by the front gate!" He whirled about, headed back into the tunnels at a run.

"His name's Schnitzer!" Carter called after him.

Baker and Kinch locked eyes. "They're in the woods."

"Show time," Olsen muttered, nervously fiddling with the microphone in his hand.

Kinch clutched the script a little tighter. "Are Jones and Lyons in position?"

"They'd better be," Baker shot back. His focus shifted, one hand rising to his earphones. "The song's almost over." He held up a finger, threw a warning glance at LeBeau, Carter and Olsen. "Get ready to segue."

Carter gave a sharp nod and put his hand on the lever that would allow them to cut into the broadcast. LeBeau switched the phonograph on and positioned its arm over Klink's copy of _Deutchsland Über Alles._

Kinch coughed, grabbed for his coffee and took another drink. Stifling a sigh, Baker waggled his finger in the air, then added a second finger. Olsen brought the microphone to his lips. Baker extended a third finger. As all three fingers cut a downward slash through the air, Carter threw the lever.

"This is Radio Berlin – the Voice of the Vaterland," Olsen spoke in clear, precise German. "Stay tuned for a speech from the savior of Germany and leader of the Reich, our beloved Fuehrer. Heil Hitler!"

LeBeau gently lowered the needle to the vinyl disk. Olsen dipped his microphone toward it.

Outside, the camp's guards snapped to attention as _Deutchsland Über Alles_ blared from the camp's loudspeakers.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

_Just a little further. Almost there. Just keep moving. Almost home._

Newkirk pushed himself, dragging feet that felt like lead weights over the uneven ground, trying not to fall. It felt like years since Schnitzer had left them on the roadside, as close to Stalag 13 as they had dared. The process of getting everyone out of the truck and into the cover of the trees had felt never-ending. Newkirk's heart had been in his throat the whole time, his ears straining to catch any sound that might indicate an approaching vehicle. Finally, they were all out. Schnitzer tossed a wave out of the driver's window and drove away, leaving them to make the last leg of their journey on their own.

_And speaking of legs_, Newkirk thought, wincing. His were growing shakier by the minute. His body, apparently fed up with his continuing lack of sympathy, was ready to give out on him. The tickle in his throat had become a burn, and swallowing was something he was trying to avoid. The cough – when he lost the battle to contain it in Schnitzer's truck – had deepened to a barking sound. In the quiet woods, it would sound more like a foghorn, alerting the guards in Stalag 13's towers, "Escaped prisoners over here! Come and get 'em!"

A twig snapped under Tivoli's foot. They all flinched and froze in place. At the rate they were going and they noise they were making, the guards would have to be deaf not to hear them. They waited, but the sirens remained silent and no guards came crashing through the woods to surround them. With a collective sigh of relief, they pushed onward.

Tivoli and Hogan were laboring badly. The only reason the Italian was still on his feet was because Benson was keeping him there. Newkirk saw Benson's head tip toward Tivoli's, his mouth moving, probably offering a variation of the same words still running through Newkirk's mind.

_Just a little further. Almost there. Just keep moving. Almost home._

Over the noise of his own raspy breathing, Newkirk heard Hogan's breath coming short and fast. His CO's profile was ashen and tense, his posture hunched, his footsteps dragging as much as Newkirk's.

"Almost there," Newkirk whispered aloud, as much for Hogan's benefit as his own.

"Yeah," Hogan whispered back. The place where he had bitten his lip had split open again, spilling fresh blood. Sweat darkened the collar of the shirt Josef had given him to replace the one Kurt had cut apart. Watching Hogan's eyes squeeze shut and his teeth clench in pain, Newkirk wondered if he would have to endure the sight of him collapsing again.

Hogan's eyes flew open and he pulled up, his head cocking in a listening pose.

"Do you hear that?"

Newkirk strained to hear. Faintly, through the trees came the sound of . . .

"Music?"

Benson and Tivoli had stopped and were listening, too. Benson looked back at Hogan and Newkirk, mouthing, "_You hear it, too?"_

They nodded.

"How ruddy marvelous," Newkirk muttered sarcastically, having suddenly recognized the tune. "It's the bloody _Über Alles_."

A grin briefly wiped the exhaustion from Hogan's face. "It's the guys. They're covering for us. Come on. Fast as you can."

Doggedly and with painful slowness, they moved on, toward the hidden entrance, their friends, safety – and sleep. The music grew louder as they approached, Newkirk fighting back cutting words in response to the German anthem.

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"Our mates had provided the perfect diversion for us. See, none of the guards could move lest someone see them and report them. Well, 'cause it was treason to be caught not hanging on every blee – every word that came out of ol' Hitler's mouth, Katie.You're right, Teddy,it wasn't Hitler giving that speech. It was our mate, Kinch. But the Krauts didn't know that. Kinch always could do a beautiful imitation of that frog-stepping, filthy-mouthed Kraut. Andrew could, too."

"See, with the Krauts standing like statues listening to Kinch rather than us stumbling and bumbling our way around, we had a good shot at getting into the tunnel without being seen or heard. Still, getting two badly injured, one-armed men down that hollowed out tree stump wouldn't be an easy task by far."

"But our mates had seen to that, too."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

There it was. The emergency entrance was directly ahead, bathed in sunlight.

Breathing heavily, sweat running down their faces, Hogan and Newkirk looked across the short distance separating them from Benson and Tivoli. Benson barely flicked a glance in their direction. His primary focus was upon Tivoli. The Italian was panting in pain, nearly out on his feet.

Hogan gritted his teeth, fighting not to make any sound and give away their position. His back and shoulder were on fire from unending, searing lances of pain. He was as close to collapse as Tivoli. Newkirk's assistance and whispered encouragement had helped keep him on his feet, but the Englishman was exhausted, too. Hogan was determined that the last of Newkirk's strength would not be used getting him into the tunnel. He would make it on his own if he had to drag himself there by his one good arm.

"Colonel?" Newkirk whispered, laying a hand on Hogan's arm and peering into his eyes. He nodded, offered a grin that probably looked more like a grimace.

The last bars of _Deutschland Über Alles_ faded away and silence fell over the woods once more. A few seconds passed and then a raspy, strained voice floated through the trees.

Newkirk turned wide eyes to Hogan, mouthing, _"That's Kinch!"_

Hogan listened a few moments. Kinch was doing a good job of imitating Hitler – good enough, he hoped, to fool the Germans long enough for them to get inside.

Looking over at Benson and Tivoli, he signaled them to go for the tunnel. They had taken only a few steps when he frantically signaled them to stop, then made a sharp, palms down motion. Benson and Tivoli immediately went to their knees.

Hogan tugged on Newkirk's sleeve, then pointed into the trees off to their left. Newkirk looked that way, craning his neck to see without moving the rest of his body. His head whipped back toward Hogan, his eyes wide with alarm.

They were not alone.

One of Stalag 13's guards stood only a short distance away. He was at attention, facing away from them, but close enough to hear should they make too much noise.

Still keeping Tivoli relatively upright, Benson thrust his head toward Hogan, mouthing, _"What do we do now?"_

Hogan turned toward Newkirk, only to utter a fervent curse under his breath. The Englishman had left his side and was inching his way through the trees toward the guard.

_What the --! _

Hogan could only watch and worry while Newkirk silently slipped between two bushes and disappeared. He held his breath. And then, to his complete astonishment, he saw the guard suddenly jerk to one side with a startled squawk and disappear from view behind a thick copse of trees. Furious barking erupted followed by crashing and rustling that grew fainter as it moved further away from their position. Newkirk reappeared a few seconds later, wearing a triumphant grin.

"We owe Heidi a big, juicy bone," he whispered, returning to Hogan's side. "She's taken the guard for a long romp."

Hogan slapped him on the back. "Good job." He paused, listening. 'Hitler' was still speaking, his words coming faster, his voice growing more strident. Hogan turned and motioned to Benson, signaling him to proceed.

While Hogan and Newkirk watched, Benson half led, half carried Tivoli to the entrance and flipped the stump's lid open. Lyons head popped above the edge, startling everyone. Hogan saw him say something to Benson and Tivoli and then disappear below again. With Benson steadying him, Tivoli lifted his foot over the edge of the stump and eased it onto the ladder. Hogan held his breath while the Italian descended, hoping he would not hear the sound of a body hitting the ground. It did not come and he blew out a slow breath of relief. Lyons popped back into view moments later. After a quick, nervous check around, Benson urgently beckoned Hogan and Newkirk forward.

Hogan put his hand to the small of Newkirk's back and gently nudged him. "Go on."

Newkirk's expression hardened. "No, sir. You first."

"Go. That's an order." Hogan waved again to Benson, who was hovering anxiously over the entrance, eyes constantly sweeping their surroundings. "The sooner you get down there, the sooner I will, too."

Newkirk gave him a searching look. His mouth slowly relaxed into a smile. "See you below, Guv'nor."

Hogan's eyes followed his slow descent until he had passed below the stump's lip. By the time Lyons reappeared to let them know that Newkirk had gotten down safely, Hogandiscovered he could hardly move. His legs felt weaker than everand any attempts to move stoked the fire in his back.

_Oh, boy._

Benson was suddenly crouched before him, brow creased in concern. "How about I help you, sir."

Hogan chuckled under his breath. "That's an offer I'm not going to refuse."

With Benson's assistance – and he needed a lot of it – Hogan made it to the stump. Lyons was waiting on the ladder, ready to lend his help. Between Benson's support from above and Lyons' from below, Hogan finally set foot on the tunnel's dirt floor. Black spots danced across his vision, the fire in his shoulder and back threatening to bring him to his knees. He stumbled and immediately felt someone carefully brace him up.

"Easy, Colonel."

He turned his headtoward them, blinking to drive away the spots. A fuzzy face swam into focus. He searched for a name, mentally cursing the pain fogging his thoughts. Finally, it came to him.

"Thanks, Jones."

Jones' face lit up with a blinding smile. "You're welcome, sir."

Maddux slipped up beside Jones, slapped him on the shoulder and jerked his head toward the tunnel beyond. "Let's go let Kinch know he can stop with all the racket." Almost as an afterthought, his gaze swung to Hogan, and he offered a nod in greeting. "Sir. Good to have you back."

Jones hesitated, his mouth opening to say something more, but another slap and pointed look from Maddux made him shut it. Together, they jogged back along the emergency tunnel.

Hogan suddenly realized that he had not heard Newkirk's distinctive voice among the others.

"Newkirk?"

"Here, sir," came the Englishman's quick reply. He edged past Lyons, who backed past Benson and Tivoli and further along the tunnel, giving them more room. "Battered, bruised but bloody glad to be alive," Newkirk quipped, doffing an imaginary hat in Hogan's direction.

"I'm glad **that's** over," Benson muttered, keeping a sweating, white-lipped Tivoli upright against the tunnel wall.

"We made it," Hogan said, meeting and holding Tivoli's gaze. A chuckle slipped from the Italian's mouth as he laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Even weak, his voice carried a rich undertone of satisfaction.

"We sure did." He opened heavy-lidded eyes to look back at Hogan. "Sir."

Newkirk slumped against the wall, suddenly feeling like the weight of the world had fallen from his shoulders. He looked around the tunnel and then back at Hogan, Benson and Tivoli, drinking in one fact, wishing he could shout it to the heavens.

"We're home."

"Yes, you are!" came Kinch's hoarse cry from further up the tunnel. Within seconds, the small space was crammed with bodies. Newkirk, Benson, Tivoli and Hogan could only stand and soak up their friends' happiness, letting their own smiles speak for them. Finally, Hogan lifted his good hand, feebly waved over their heads to get everyone's attention. Kinch shushed those who had not seen the signal and quiet descended. Blinking owlishly, Hogan took a step toward them and heaved a heart-felt sigh.

"Fellas," he said quietly. "It's great to be back. But . . . " he swallowed, swaying on his feet. "We really need to lie down."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Baker sat propped at the common room table, smiling and totally at ease, enjoying the peace and almost quiet of Barracks Two. Braveheart's soft, intermittent snoring and O'Malley's deeper, rumbles and snorts were music to his ears. To Olsen and Carter's, too, judging by their sleepy smiles. He caught Paxton's attention, and with a back-handed shooing motion, signaled the other man to stop folding towels and go to bed. With a wave and a jaw-cracking yawn, Paxton followed the directive. Within moments, he lay fast asleep.

Echoing Paxton's yawn, Baker turned his head to check on Kinch. His fellow sergeant was burrowed into his pillow, breathing deeply in dreamless sleep. With a sigh of perfect contentment, Baker slowly slumped forward, braced his elbows on the table and propped his head in his hands. He tilted his head, sliding his gaze sideways far enough to see LeBeau. The little Frenchman was back in his own bunk, huddled under the blankets, finally, peacefully asleep. Grinning, Baker let his eyelids slide shut. Time to take his own advice.

Sleep sounded good. Really, really good.

Fighting to stay awake long enough to find his bunk, Baker braced his hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet.

The barracks door suddenly opened and Schultz marched inside, a determined look in his eyes. Somehow, Baker managed not to stumble over the bench in his hurry to intercept him near the woodstove. Putting a finger to his lips, Baker turned in place and swept his arm wide, directing Schultz's attention to all the men sound asleep in their bunks. Schultz's eyes went comically wide. He pantomimed Baker's finger to the lips shushing, then crooked that same finger, silently asking Baker to join him outside.

Once there, Schultz's determined look returned. He glared into Baker's face, chin lifting, shoulders pulling back in what was meant to be an intimidating posture.

"No more Mr. Nice Guy," Schultz proclaimed. "I am here to see Colonel Hogan and Newkirk with my two, very own eyes." Said eyes narrowed to slits. "I have already checked the rec hall, the latrine, the showers, Barracks Nine, Ten, Twelve –"

"All right, all right," Baker soothed, putting his hands to Schultz's shoulders. "You win. But before you check on them, I should tell you that they're both hurt."

Schultz stared at him in surprise. "How were they hurt?"

"The colonel strained some muscles in his back and shoulder helping Paxton lift Braveheart back into his bunk. And Newkirk woke up disoriented, fell over the wood box and banged his head on the floor."

Schultz shook his head, face falling in sadness. "That is terrible. Langenscheidt reported that Tivoli has also injured himself. So many bad things have been happening lately."

_Tell me about it_, Baker sighed to himself, rubbing his beard-roughened jaw.

Schultz turned to go inside. Baker quickly grabbed him again, saying in a rush, "Before you check on them, you've got to promise me one thing."

"Just one?" Schultz cocked his head, surprised all over again. "What is this one thing?"

"That you won't wake them up."

Schultz blinked. "Won't—"

"Wake them up," Baker finished heavily, nodding.

"That is it?"

"That's it."

"Oh," Schultz said succinctly, mouth forming a perfect 'o'. Turning on his heel, he pushed the barracks' door open with the flat of one beefy hand and went back inside. Baker tucked his hands into his pockets and sauntered in to find Schultz already at the door to Hogan's quarters. Carefully cracking the door open, Schultz peeked inside the darkened room. Baker crowded up at his back, peering over his shoulder so that he could see. They could just make out Hogan and Newkirk's huddled forms in the bunks. With a quick peek over his shoulder at Baker, Schultz tiptoed into the room for a better look. Moments later, he tiptoed right back out.

"Satisfied?" Baker whispered, bracing his feet apart to keep from falling on his face. Wearing a happy smile, Schultz nodded, gave Baker a light, double pat on the chest, and tiptoed out of the barracks. Baker promptly found his bunk and collapsed into it. His last thought, as he drifted into the netherworld of dreams: _Hold your calls, London, 'cause there ain't nobody home._

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"So that was it, pretty much. London got their coded papers after all and I lived to tell this tale to you three."

"The rest of my mates? Whooo. . . you want all the loose ends tied up, don't you? Well, all right then. Let me see . . ."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

Hogan woke from his nap and stretched in his bunk, luxuriating in being able to perform the act without pain. The month of physical therapy had paid off and he was back at top condition once again. Pleasantly sleep-drunk, he rolled out of bed, stretched again just for the simple joy of it, and wandered outside to see what was happening.

He paused a few feet from the door, giving his eyes time to recover from the blinding, afternoon sun. Heavy-limbed and content, he tipped his head back, enjoying the warmth of the sun's light. It bathed his face, created white spots behind his closed eyelids. Smiling and breathing deeply, he lowered his head and cracked his eyes open. The glare was tolerable now. A shadow flowed into his vision from the left, long and angular on the buff-colored ground. Hogan's smile widened.

"Kinch."

"Colonel," came his second's rich voice, sounding as relaxed and content as Hogan felt.

By silent, mutual consent, they struck out for nowhere in particular, walking slow and easy, matching stride for stride. After taking a stroll around the camp, they returned to Barracks Two, content to simply lean against the wall and watch life go by.

LeBeau and Lyons ambled past, deep in conversation – in French. LeBeau's hands waved and sliced through the air, punctuating what appeared to be a very serious point. Lyons, hands loosely tucked behind his back, nodded, then answered in a thoughtful tone. LeBeau smiled up at him, nodding enthusiastically. The conversation continued in that vein as they passed out of earshot.

Hogan stared after them, mouth partially open in surprise.

"Were they . . .?"

"Yes, sir, they were." Kinch bent his knee, bracing his foot against the wall.

Hogan slowly nodded, then in the next second, jumped aside as a stray softball hurtled past him, thunked off the barracks wall and dropped between their feet. Jones hurried over, blushing and stammering apologies at missing the catch. Kinch bent down and tossed the ball back, putting enough mustard on the throw that it knocked Jones back a step. He laughed, tossed off a quick salute to both men, then ran back to the game. The other players yelled out catcalls at the blundered catch, which Jones easily fielded with a few razzes of his own. Newkirk picked himself off the ground after reaching base safely and yelled encouragement to Carter, who was standing at home plate, bat at the ready. A few moments later, the game was in full swing once more.

Hogan readjusted his crush cap, slumped back against the wall and loosely folded his arms. His gaze cut sideways to Kinch, a grin quirking his lips. "Not one word about my reflexes being back."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." Kinch's smile would have made Buddha proud.

Benson and Tivoli sauntered by at that moment, hands in back pockets, shoulders swinging freely with each stride. They broke off their conversation to offer greetings to Hogan and Kinch, and then continued their stroll. Benson's voice, tinged with confusion, floated back to them.

"You just don't strike me as a sculler."

"I'm not," came Tivoli's nonchalant reply.

Benson stopped dead. "But . . . but . . . at the river you said--"

Tivoli smoothly pivoted to face him, but kept walking - backwards. With a distinct gleam of devilry in his gaze and smug satisfaction in his voice, he explained, "What I **said** was that **my school** had the best sculling squad in the state. I never said anything about being **on** the squad."

A second or two went by while Benson sputtered and Tivoli kept putting distance between them. Breaking free of the surprise, Benson let out a yell of outrage, jerked the cap from his head and lunged after Tivoli. The Italian whooped in laughter, spun and ran off, Benson hot on his heels. Hogan and Kinch leaned out from the wall, avidly watched them go sliding around the corner of Barracks Three in a cloud of dust, then slowly leaned back against the wall and faced forward again.

Staring out at the on-going softball game, Hogan pondered aloud, "You learn all sorts of interesting tidbits of information hanging out around here."

Kinch nodded serenely. "Yes, sir. You do indeed."

They remained in quiet contemplation for a while longer, and then Hogan yawned, straightened away from the wall and stretched.

"You up for a game of chess?"

The afternoon sun added an extra sparkle to Kinch's wide smile. "Are you ready to lose again?"

Hogan's expression turned decidedly wolfish. "Them there's fightin' words, buddy."

Kinch laughed. "You know me, sir. I love to live dangerously."

"So do, I," Hogan chuckled, throwing a companionable arm around Kinch's shoulders and leading him onward. "So do I."

**HH HH HH HH HH**

"And that was that. We all had – "

"Why, look who's here! It's your namesake, little mate. Namesake . . . the one you were named after is right, poppet. Got it before Teddy on that one."

"Ben, old man. You're out for your late afternoon constitutional, then? Going to make an Englishman out of you yet, we are. Sit right down with us here on this bench. There's still room enough to squeeze in. Look here. We've got us a granddad sandwich. Three giggling little ones between two crusty old warhorses. What? Who are you trying to pull the wool over on? You've only a few years less crust than me, Ben O'Malley."

"Where's Sarah off to today that she's left you to your own devices? Ah. No wonder you've joined us in the park. That shopping's not for me, either. What's that? Lean over a bit. I can't hear you over all this giggling what's going on. Oh, I've just finished up with a bit of storytelling. Well, they asked for one and I certainly couldn't turn down such beautiful grandchildren as we – what Teddy? Oh, most definitely. Beautiful, handsome **and** clever grandchildren."

"Did you see that, Ben? That lady just whalloped that gent with her purse! She most certainly did so. She needs a little work on her back swing, but good form, otherwise. Could give her a few pointers, what with all my experience with –"

"What tale did I tell this time? You remember the time everyone got so bluh—I know, I know. I'm working on it, Ben." Anyroad, everyone was so sick, and the camp was quarantined and there were those coded papers and Louis, the guv'nor and I – Yes, that's the one. No, I'll not forget it either. Sometimes wish I could, though. That was a right nightmare, even if it did turn out all . . ."

"What's all the fussing and sleeve yanking about this time, little mate? Slow down, slow down. My ears can't listen as fast as you can talk anymore. What's wrong, then?"

"The tale's finished, Benjamin. I've told all there is to tell. Forgotten something? No, I don't think – Ah! Why, you're so right, little mate! I **have** forgotten something. Why don't we all say it together, then? Ready, Katie? Teddy? How about our Benjamins? All together, now. On the count of three, give it all you got. One . . . two . . . three."

"THE END!"

**_Thank you for reading - and listening!_** ;-)

_Author's note and dedication:_

_I cannot thank Marilyn Penner enough for her contribution to this tale. She was the mastermind behind Kinch's diversion and generously allowed me to adapt and change her version to fit my own vision. I can only hope it came out as well._

_She blesses me with her friendship, provides the spark for my muse, and teaches me through her gentle nature and creativity. Above all else, she is a solid, comforting, loving and gracious friend. I will always be thankful for the fandom and characters that brought her and others into my life._


End file.
